


Shotguns and Comets

by nightlighttuesdays



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Sports, Athlete Castiel, Athlete Dean, Big Brother Gabriel, Bisexual Dean, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Carry On My Wayward Son, Castiel Talks Dirty, Castiel Texts, Castiel/Dean Winchester Cuddles, Cell Phones, Closeted Dean, Dean Has a Sexuality Crisis, Dean and Sexuality, Demisexual Castiel, Drugged Dean, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Freckles, Gay, Geek Dean, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hockey, Homophobic John, Human Castiel, I don't know what else to tag this as, I finished, I'm dead, Kansas, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Masturbation, Nicknames, Oh John, Oral Sex, Sam's Bitchface, Sex, Sexting, Sexuality Crisis, Shower Sex, Sleepy Cuddles, Soul-Searching, Texting, That's it, Top Castiel, Writer Chuck, aggressive tagging, basically i never got over jess, chuck cockblocks, hella gay, i'm really happy i got to finish this, im laughing so hard, just gay, not really idk, our fandom has a serious problem if that is a well used tag, potentially to be revisited later, seriously though why is that a tag, slight homophobia, thanks for reading!, the closeted dean tag makes me want to cry, the sex doesn't happen til chapter 8, this tag right here, why is there a cas/dean cuddles tag, woohoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1728062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightlighttuesdays/pseuds/nightlighttuesdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester's the leading scorer for the Shotguns, one of the top hockey teams in the NHL. Everything's going great (if great is an apartment with your awkward best friend and an unholy amount of deeply repressed gaiety) until the 'guns biggest rivals, the Comets, get a new goalie. As far as Dean's concerned, Castiel Novak is a ninja in the net and, um, sex hair. When they finally meet and inevitably become friends, Dean realises it's going to be harder than expected to keep his personal life off the ice.<br/>This is the story of why you shouldn't check out the other team's keeper.<br/>(This is the story of why you should.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fare Thee Well, Captain Assbeard

_Thwap!_

_Thwap!_

_Thwadunk._

“Fucking hell, man, you wanna ease up? Game doesn’t start for another hour.”

Dean pauses, stick in midair as he considers it. “I think you need the practice,” he grunts as he swings for another slapshot. It whips into the net behind Chuck who, though all Dean can see is his eyes, looks sort of pissed.

“Fuck you, Dean.”

Dean skates away with a laugh, giving Benny a chance to warm up on goal. Chuck’s a good goalie, he is, and he probably doesn’t need Dean ribbing him all the time about keeping on top of the shots and taking one for the team, but that doesn’t really change anything.

As he goes around their half of the ice, Dean takes in the panorama of fans starting to find their seats. There’s already thick chatter, the advance promise of a roaring stadium once the game gets underway.

It never gets old.

He started playing hockey when he was little, mostly because it was fast and it was brutal and he liked the idea of that. It was never an aspiration, really, he was just good at wrecking people, and then turning right around and slipping a well-placed shot into the goal. It worked out that Bobby Singer, coach of the Chicago Shotguns, was scouting a high-profile teammate of Dean’s in the ammies and instead, ended up taking Dean on the bus ride back. He’s been playing with most of the same guys for 6 years now, and they know that he’d do just about anything for them.

Which is why Chuck doesn’t stay mad when a slapshot whizzes by his ear while he’s not looking, and Dean’s looking so clearly faux-nonchalant that it couldn’t have been anyone else.

The other team - league calls them the Godsquad, because it seems like half their players have GODSON ironed on the back of their jerseys - is one of the ‘guns greatest rivals. Whenever they’re in the same city, seats fill up quicker’n a Cowboys and Giants Superbowl. Seeing Shotguns vs. Comets is like a promise that the game’ll be close and bloody, and that’s exactly what hockey fans come out for.

Dean loops slowly around the ice, careful not to interfere with Adam and Colt’s passing warmup. He knows most of the other team’s players - not personally, of course, because they’re douches; the smarmy British import, Balthazar Unpronounceable-Last-Name, who trash-talks even when his face is smushed against the glass; Bartholomew Smith, who, if it’s possible, Dean hates even more than Balthazar, mostly just on principle; the Godson bros., who’ve always been wingers on the same team and weren’t about to stop once they infiltrated the NHL; the right defender whose name Dean can never remember, who’s maybe not that big of a douche; and the keeper. That’s who Dean’s really watching right now. The newbie.

This is one of their first in-season games, meaning the teams haven’t clacked sticks since the keeper change of the previous spring. The Comets used to have this grizzled old dude who everyone called Metatron (Dean has no clue why. He thinks it might have something to do with Transformers). The animosity between the ‘guns and Metatron is probably best expressed through a list of some of their various nicknames: Metadouche (variations: Metadouchey McDoucherson, Metadouché), Captain Assbeard, Fuckhead, Ye Olde Shit, Metafucker, Bag of Dicks, Fucking Shitbeard, Fatty McFucker, Metatits, etc.

Dean has yet to meet someone who genuinely likes Metadouche. The guy just exudes sleaze, and it probably doesn’t help that he’s an adequate keeper - or rather, was an adequate keeper. Turns out Captain Assbeard was trying to start shit on the team and Zachariah, Coach of the Douches, cut his nominal losses and terminated McDoucherson’s contract. That’s when the backup, Novak, came up.

He doesn’t know a whole hell of a lot about Novak, but all it takes is one stunning save to convince Dean that he won’t be easy. And as he watches, it happens over and over and over again - out of about 20 quality shots, Dean counts 2 that actually make it into the net. He’s impressed.

“You ready?” Dean asks Benny as he skates by.

Benny lowers a shoulder and fake-checks him. “I was born ready.”

“Today, the douches die!” Dean raises his stick like a swordsman off to war.

Benny just groans and skates away. “Don’t bring your fucking cosplay shit in the rink,” he shouts over his shoulder.

Dean shakes his head, turning to Chuck with a grin. “What about you? You ready?

Chuck thumps his gloved hand on the ice a few times. “Bring it on, Winn Dixie.”

_Thwap!_

_Thwadunk._

_Thwap!_

_Thwadunk._

_Thwadunk._

_Thwap!_

_Thwap!_

_Thwap!_

“You sure you’re set?” Dean asks, complete with shit-eating grin. “Now you’re down by 5.”

Chuck takes his helmet off. “Isn’t scoring what they pay you for?”

“Isn’t standing in the net what they pay _you_ for?”

Chuck rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. This is just their typical pregame banter; they both know it doesn’t mean anything.

That’s how the rest of pregame goes - bitching and running drills and some more bitching and shooting.

…..........................................................................

Colt takes the faceoff like a pro, sweeping it out to Dean as soon as Bartholomew mishandles it. It’s in Dean’s possession for about 0.23 seconds before R. Godson slams him up against the boards, but the puck’s still on Dean’s stick and with a quick flick, it’s across to Benny, who starts the drive to Novak.

Right defender - Elia? - sends a wraparound behind the goal to Balthazar, and then Dean has to hurry onside before Victor can send it back through.

It’s about 15 minutes before the first blood is drawn and damn, is Dean ready for it when it hits.

Bobby’s told him a million times not to start fights, because he tends to get a little overexcited and ends up in the time-out chair for longer than they can spare him. This, though, this one was fair game.

R. Godson started it when he smashed Victor into the glass. Three times.

Dean tried, he really did, but there’s only so much abuse he can stand for his defender. Since R. didn’t get the memo the first two times Dean repaid the favor with a full-body check, he follows it up with a fist to the helmet. Fighting in hockey gear is slow and sometimes sad looking because there’s usually too much padding to do any serious damage, but Dean’s one of the best in the league in terms of knocking out teeth and blacking eyes.

“Fucking bitch,” Dean snarls.

R. Godson’s helmet is knocked askew, but he ignores it in favor of trying to pummel Dean into the ice.

“Go home, pretty boy.” Dean almost laughs at R. Godson’s weak response.

He just ducks and dodges a few before he really starts to go to town on Godson, fists flying until some drops of blood slip out of Godson’s mouth and the referees are pulling them apart.

“Five for fighting,” the ref says, looking a little worn down.

On the way to the penalty box, Victor slaps Dean’s butt, an implied thank you. It makes the five minutes slightly more bearable, but he can also see Bobby glaring holes into him from across the ice and if there’s anything he hates, it’s pissing Bobby off. The team holds up without him, though, and he comes back in for half a minute before intermission.

He was right - Bobby tears him a new one as soon as they're in the locker room.

"Boy, what the hell do you think you're doing? No fights means _no fights_ , idjit."

"Did you see what that jackass was doing to Victor? I had to do somethin', Bobby."

Bobby just scowls and says, "Let Victor take care of himself. We need you on the ice."

"Bobby-"

"Git your hand wrapped up before we go back in."

Dean huffs and turns away to find the trainer, but before he can make a dramatic exit, he hears Bobby mutter, "But you had some good hits," which is basically Bobby-talk for "I'm proud of you, son." Dean doesn't turn around, but the whole time the trainer, Jo, is cleaning up his bloody hand, he's got a massive smile on his face.

In the first few minutes of the second period, R. Godson gets through and smashes one in the back of the net. He sneers, directly at Dean, as his team comes to celebrate, and all Dean can think is that _the game is afoot, motherfucker._

Colt slaps the faceoff to Benny, who threads the puck through Bartholomew and a Godson to Dean, who fakes around Balthazar to slip it between star keeper’s legs and into the goal. Novak looks kind of surprised by the speed of it, and Dean can’t help but wink at him as he skates back to his side, Benny pounding him on the shoulder the whole way back.

“Fucking _sank_ it, man!”

“Yeah, you hooked me up with a nice one, Ben.”

Colt skates up beside them. “You ready for another?”

“I’m ready for another three, man. Let’s get it goin’.” Dean stops on the line and gets ready for another drive.

Benny hits another one in off a long pass from Adam before the second period’s out, but Bartholomew comes up early in the third and manages to wiggle his way in close enough to Chuck that when U. Godson sends it through, Bartholomew’s able to tip it into the net.

Dean’s on edge. He doesn’t like a tie this late in the game - hell, he doesn’t like a tie ever, but the only thing shittier than a shootout is a last second loss.

The game ends in a deadlock, 2-2 tie, and Dean’s not happy. The five minute overtime goes, as expected, nowhere, even though his whole team is, as far as he can see it, working their asses off, and he and Benny and Colt are taking shots left and right. Chuck and Novak are pretty evenly matched as keepers, so Dean can’t expect any more flop shots to sneak past Novak. He figures the first goal was probably nerves on Novak’s part, the second just a phenomenal shot by Benny, and only divine intervention is going to help them from here on out.

Bobby sends Dean, Benny, and Zeddmore out for the shootout, like he usually does. Dean and Benny are always a clear choice, just because of their experience and skill with placement, but Zedd’s got some potential to be one of the next greats. He subs for Dean or stands in when Dean’s on the DL, but he’s got a few years before the spot’s open for another permanent right winger.

The crowd’s going batshit crazy, because apparently they like seeing grown men just about piss themselves praying for the ice to be on their side in these final minutes. Dean shakes his head to clear it, waiting for the ref to give him the go ahead.

Once he’s cleared, he starts down the ice quickly, trying to tune out the distractions and focus on the target before him. His eyes search for the opening in the net as Novak shuffles backwards, narrowing Dean’s opportunity for a goal, but - _there_. He sees it, left side, and then the puck’s off his stick and in the air almost before he’s made the decision.

There’s a moment where Dean thinks it goes in, and then he realises Novak’s got it clutched in a glove and his heart fucking plummets. He curses back to the bench, where Benny and Kevin pat him on the back and everyone else wisely leaves him the fuck alone because they know what Dean looks like when he really hates himself. He doesn’t understand how he could’ve fucked it up, because it was pretty routine, and he’s scored on better goalies than Novak. All he can do now is hope that Chuck holds the Comets and Benny and Zedd sink their shots.

R. Godson’s first up; Chuck mangles the save and it slips in underneath him a split-second after everyone thinks he’s saved it.

Everyone’s on their feet - including the players, and Dean’s right there along with them, banging his stick off the wall, like that’ll help ensure that Benny saves his ass.

Benny comes in like a shark, arching his path out the left-hand side before centering on goal. The puck finds the gap between Novak’s legs, sending the buzzer off and the arena in mixed cheers and boos. Dean pounds Benny on the back as he returns, saying something like “fuck yeah, fucking _yeah_!”

Chuck blocks U. Godson’s with a well-placed glove and now it’s all down to Ed to keep them in the running.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” Dean chants under his breath. “Let’s go Zedd, c’mon, you got this.”

He winds back too far out, Dean thinks, it’s too far, but the puck whips past Novak’s shoulder and it’s _in_ and Dean might be screaming, he’s not really sure.

Chuck and Bartholomew for the last matchup. Bartholomew has a history of scoring against Chuck, a wicked shot that throws Chuck off-balance half the time. Dean’s torn between watching and curling up in the fetal position beneath the bench, because if this goes in, it’s not on Chuck, it’s on Dean.

He doesn’t see much, can’t bear to watch it, but when the puck comes rebounding back nearly to the midline, he notices, and oh, god, does he clear that friggin’ wall with the rest of the team to go and mob Chuck.

…….................................................

Dean’s on the way into the press-conference room when the door flings open and almost hits him in the face.

“Sorry,” he hears a low voice say.

“‘S fine, man,” Dean responds, holding the door open for a dude to exit, with killer sex hair and almost freaky blue eyes. He stares at Dean, wide-eyed, for a few seconds, then heads wordlessly off down the hall to the Comets’ locker room. Dean’s head turns, almost on a swivel, to follow the ass-hugging sweatpants down the hall, because damn.

He’s halfway through fielding some ridiculous questions that make him feel even shittier about his bungled shot when he realises that the hot dude in the hallway must have been Novak. He’s a clear step-up from Captain Assbeard, who looked like he showered once every four months.

Interesting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in other news, i went through a hockey phase.  
> disclaimer: i'm not an authority on the logistics of hockey teams and how they travel/get around in arenas, so if i got anything wrong, please let me know. i just googled like crazy.  
> by the way, if anyone wants to see an example of "i went to a fight and a hockey game broke out", https://imgur.com/gallery/2hY4ecc . there's a link below that you can see the video of it. i'm still laughing, but tw because there's a lot of punches being thrown.
> 
> hope you guys like!


	2. Better than Drinking Alone

Novak’s staring at the side of Dean's face from across the bar. It's vaguely disconcerting, but Dean isn't above preening a little. It's nice to get a little attention, even if it is from Novak.

"Yoooo, Deano, you coolio if me and Becky, uh, skedaddle?" Dean looks away from the amber liquid in his glass and suppresses a snort as he sees Chuck, looking thoroughly wasted. Most of the team’s left already, with one girl or another, and Chuck seems to be following procedure.

The girl with her arm looped through Chuck's has big eyes and an almost painful looking smile that shows all her teeth. She's wearing a headband with a daisy woven into it, and Dean wonders when the hell flower crowns came back.

"Yeah, yeah, I don't need you to babysit me, Chuck."

"Great," Chuck says enthusiastically. Without another word, he stumbles away with the support of Becky, who looks almost suspiciously sober. Dean would say something, make sure she's not into date rape and kidnap, but it's like Chuck has a guardian angel watching over him. No matter what fucked up situation Chuck manages to stumble into, he inevitably stumbles out of, none the worse for the wear. After the third supposed-to-be-fatal car wreck that Chuck walked out of with little more than a few scratches and bruises, and that one time someone attempted to mug him (at which point a busload of cops jumped out from behind dumpsters and arrested the dude for dealing drugs and the illegal possession of a firearm), Dean's pretty convinced that Chuck has God on his side and isn't in need of a temperamental bodyguard that's currently trying to gauge how drunk he'd have to get to go for the Jersey Shore leftover in the back corner.

It takes a few more shots to blur her face into some beautiful, exotic creature and make the orange of her skin look less Doritos and more sun-baked, but by the time Dean gets to the Shangrilah of intoxication, he's not thinking about sex. He really should remember that drinking alone makes him a sad drunk.

He's sitting at the bar, chin resting on his hand as he stares off into the not-so-distant memory of the game. He's a perfectionist, he knows, but he's worked on it well enough that the continuous replays only come to him in the last minutes before sleep takes him, or when he's drinking heavily. This time is no different.

He can see himself taking the shot, feel the way the puck came off the stick, clean and sharp and if he'd only had his body angled a little better, it would've gone in, and the shoot-out wouldn't have been on Chuck to save. He contemplatively swirls the ice cubes in his drink, pushing the glass forward for another. At least they didn't lose. Dean would be a wreck if they'd lost, on account of his fucked up shot.

And then there’s the goalie.

Dean turns his head again, to the back corner of the establishment. He can see Novak sitting at the table, across from the Godson brothers and next to that jackass Bartholomew. It might be Dean's fuzzy vision, but Novak doesn't look pleased. He's glaring at the creepy brother, R-something and it looks like he's telling him off about something. Dean amuses himself for a while, imagining the words that are coming out of Novak's mouth. Right now, it looks like he's saying fuck off and walking awa- oh, shit, he’s getting closer. Dean's only been staring at him for the past thirty minutes. Oops.

Novak throws himself into a seat only a stool away from Dean. Deans's pretty sure he hears him mutter " _assbutts_ ," but considering Novak is both a grown man and a hockey player, Dean reconsiders.

"Can I get a - a - umm..."

"He'll have one of these," Dean raises his shot glass to the bartender, who's probably seen weirder.

Novak swivels around, his eyes narrowing as he tilts his head to the side, studying Dean. Dean winks and raises his glass to his lips. It probably _should_ be weird, that he's treating the Comets’ goalie like a chick to be picked up, but _damn_ are his eyes blue, and _damn_ is Dean drunk.

"What is this?" Novak asks, peering into the glass that's been slammed down before him like it'll tell him.

"Guess."

Novak's eyes meet Dean's again, above the glass. He takes a little into his mouth, swirling it around like a wine taster. The face he makes is spectacular, the kind of expression you'd expect on someone who just fell face first into a pile of buffalo shit. Dean lets out a sharp bark of laughter, drawing the momentary attention of some couples around them.

"That's _awful_ ," Novak hisses, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Are you trying to poison me?"

Dean laughs again, feeling warm and blurry. "Just some whiskey, buddy."

"Oh." Novak looks at it again, considering it. "Do you want it?"

Dean shakes his head, probably too many times. "Best way down is all at once," he says helpfully.

Novak nods a few times, building himself up before he throws it down his throat. Dean expects more of a reaction than the full-body shudder, but Novak just sets the glass down and shakes his head once or twice.

"Winchester, right?" Novak asks, over the stool between them, and it seems like a good idea for Dean to slide off his and shorten the distance.

Novak is sort of really hot, Dean realizes, belatedly. Sure, he'd been checking his ass out earlier, but his face is even more impressive, close-up.

"You can just call me Dean," he says, leaning in on the elbow he has planted on the bar. Novak's eyes widen as they take in Dean's pick-up position, and his cheeks are flushing pink.

"I'm Castiel," he says.

"Novak," Dean says absentmindedly, because blueeee.

"Are you okay, Dean?" Blue coming closer, blue very close.

"Mmmm." Dean forces himself to blink and look away, around the bar. Doritos-in-a-dress is gone, probably with that frat bro from UMD, and Dean's glad he doesn't have to deal with the awkward explanation that, yeah, he was making eyes at her earlier, but _Castiel_ isn't the color of mac 'n cheese powder, he's like the moon, and he's not wearing a shimmery gold trash bag, and that's a plus.

"You're good," Dean says. "I mean, as a goalie. You're good."

Castiel's mouth straightens into a line. "Couldn't hold the shoot-out, though."

"You stopped _me_."

"But you're not a whole team."

Dean leans back and smiles. "You're right. We rocked you."

Castiel looks offended, until he sees Dean hiccup-laughing into his drink.

"You really don't drink, do you?" Dean shakes his head in mock disapproval. "You're missin' out, man, best post-game therapy."

"I find it significantly less enjoyable in the morning," Castiel responds, but Dean can see the way he's eyeing the empty glass.

"Yo, Enrique, le’s get a round over here," Dean calls over to the barkeep. Castiel tries to protest, but Dean sees that he takes it down like a man, then donates his own to the worthy cause of getting a Comet wasted.

It takes a surprising amount of alcohol to knock Castiel off-kilter and into a fit of giggles, but Dean finds the investment well worth it.

"Dean, Dean, you see that guy over there?" Dean's eyes follow Castiel's shaking finger to a man in a graphic tee. "When I came over, I saw - he's," Castiel gasps in laughter, "he's drinking his way through - through his thesis on dust mite pregnancies," he falls apart and Dean is right there beside him.

"What the _fuck_?" Dean is actually cackling, because that has to be the funniest thing he's ever heard. Ever. Or he's really fucking drunk.

The man in question turns around and glares at them, because Castiel is shit at whispering. It only makes them laugh harder. After two or three glares from Enrique, who's being kept busy at the other end of the bar, Dean waves his credit card. Enrique charges Dean for several hundred dollars' worth of alcohol and hastily sends them on their way.

By the time they get out to the curb, Dean realizes that he never checked his hotel's address, and his phone is definitely probably hopefully charging in the room. He just assumed he'd be out late with Chuck or Kevin, and then they'd stumble back together, happily drunk. His current condition, however, is verging on blackout wasted, and he's just pleased he can remember his name.

"Cas, Caaaas," he pokes Castiel in the back, snickering as he swats at the air behind him. "Where d’you live? Cause I’m homeless, heheh, I don’t have a home.”

"Unnnh." Cas peers down the road, then the other way. "An apartment? Somewhere." He pauses for a long second, searching his thoughts for which somewhere his apartment was located at. “Green Gates?”

"Great," Dean says, slinging an arm over Cas' shoulders. "Which way?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i'm just going to post everything i have so far at once. again, see anything weird/needs changing, let me know!   
> i don't know where the dust mite thing came from


	3. It was the Sausages

Dean wakes up with a pounding headache and the taste of dry rat shit on his tongue.

"Oh _god_ ," he moans into the pillow as he's violently reminded why he hasn't gotten this drunk in a long time.

He hears an answering groan to his side, and as he turns, he sees Castiel clutching his face in rumpled agony. The initial surprise subsides quickly as faint memories slip through his mind. He's still not entirely sure what happened the night before (usually, he remembers more as the day goes on); currently, it's a blur of shots and blue eyes, and he might have told Cas he's pretty (probably not the weirdest thing he's ever said drunk); but Dean's nearly positive that it was one of the best nights he's ever spent.

"This is _awful_."

And then there's that.

Dean feels sort of bad, because it's one hundred percent his fault that Cas has such a killer hangover. That's the only reason, his admittedly faulty conscience, that he swings himself to his feet.

"Where're your drugs?"

"Whaf?"

Dean looks over to find that Cas has sprawled out across the entire bed, facedown in Dean's pillow.

"Ibuprofen? Advil?"

Cas lifts his head and twists enough for Dean to see bleary eyes and, oh dear Jesus, the hair. Dean thought Cas' postgame hair was bad enough, but after a disheveling night's sleep, his hair is tufted into impressive spikes. It looks sex-worthy, it really does, but Dean's expending so much energy standing that it doesn't register in his mind that he's picturing what it'd look like in the act.

"The cabinet above the dishwasher," Cas mumbles, then drops back into the pillow.

Dean makes his way through to the kitchen, where he manages to grope his way to the cabinet and emerge triumphant with the pill bottle. Before he returns, he grabs two water bottles lined up next to the fridge, figuring Cas won’t mind if it alleviates the pain. Once he’s through the door, he tosses one to Cas. It's in the middle of its arc when he realizes that Cas isn't even looking, and it was an ace throw (as it always is when Dean's responsible. He's Batman). It lands on Cas' back with a thud, prompting a pitiful wail.

"Shit, sorry."

"You suck."

Dean drops back down on the bed. "Here, Cas," he pops open the ibuprofens and works on unscrewing the water bottle. "Drink some. You'll feel better, I promise."

One of Cas' eyes opens slowly, like a sleeping cat, and he props himself up on one elbow.

"This is all your fault," he mutters, taking the bottle and downing half of it before he swallows some pain meds.

Dean shrugs and chugs his own water down, trying to get the nasty ass taste off his tongue. "Better'n drinking alone."

He watches as Cas carefully replaces the lid to the bottle and sets it down on the floor, then somewhat less carefully flings an arm across Dean's chest. Dean freezes, eyeing the hand that's cupping his pec. Cas doesn't make any effort to move, though, and Dean eventually settles back down to the floor to wait out the throbbing in his head.

..........

He must've fallen asleep again, because the next thing he knows, Cas is staring down at him with a look akin to the Little Mermaid's whenever she finds a new shiny - not, mind you, that he's familiar with that movie, because it's for little girls and not pro hockey players.  Though, if he really thinks about it, Sammy's more little girl than Sasquatch, if you're talking about the inside. Maybe he watched it one day, and Dean just happened to see enough to catch the gist. Or maybe Dean illegally watches it online in rotation with Tangled, The Lion King, Toy Story, and Beauty and the Beast whenever he's feeling down. It's not important.

"What?" He grumbles, sitting up and halfheartedly trying not to picture Cas in a seashell bra and fishtail.

Cas flops back down on his side of the bed. "Nothing."

"Hey, man, we been sleeping together all night. I think we're past this."

Cas makes a weird face, with his eyes scrunched up and his mouth starting up into a smile, but not quite there. "It really was nothing. You were flailing a little, in your sleep."

"Ah. Sorry." Dean's aware that it has a tendency to happen.

"It really wasn't a problem," Cas says, but Dean can see his cheeks coloring pink. He's pretty sure flailing is some sort of euphemism for unconsciously feeling Cas up, but he wisely says nothing.

The pounding of his head has diminished minutely, reducing it to the approximate volume of an AC/DC concert. Cas seems to be doing better as well, so Dean figures they might be able to don their douche sunglasses and find a diner with pie and pig’n a poke specials.

"You wanna get some breakfast?" He asks as he slowly stands and stretches.

Cas rolls to his feet, too. They both somehow made it down to their boxers, which Dean finds pretty impressive, considering how knock-out wasted they were. It's also sort of distracting, the picture-perfect view of Cas' athletic physique and sex hair. Dean feels something starting in his stomach, something that - no, no, shit.

He claps a hand over his mouth and runs into the bathroom. It only takes him a few moments to heave up the entire contents of his stomach, and then he's left panting there, clutching at the grody hotel toilet like it's a life preserver.

"Fuck," he breathes out.

"Dean?" He turns, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. Cas is standing in the doorway, looking progressively pastier the longer he stares. "Are you - are - oh, no."

Dean backs away from the toilet as Cas comes diving in, the puke barely holding on until the bowl is within aiming range.

"Oh, god," Dean says, because from this point of view, it's really fucking nauseating, puke on puke. "You okay, buddy?" He pats a hand on Cas' curled in shoulder, wincing as his retching gets louder. The response Dean gets is more a strangled moan than an attempt at actual English, so Dean settles for slow circles on Cas' back.

It takes a little longer for Cas to stop vomiting. Dean refuses to look when he flushes the toilet, because that sort of gross opens the door for a second round with the porcelain throne. When the evidence is officially gone, Dean has to practically drag Cas to the sink to wash his mouth and brush his teeth.

"You always feel better after you puke," he says sagely. It's one of the only things he's secure in - his knowledge of various liquors and how to handle the backlash of getting to know them better. Cas grunts in what could be agreement.

Since Dean doesn't have a toothbrush, he gargles for about three minutes and then uses the trusty old finger brusher. Cas looks at him like he's from another world.

"What?" Dean asks defensively. "It works." Cas just shakes his head and offers his own toothbrush.

"You can use this, if you want."

Dean pushes Cas' hand away. "It's fine, really. But, um," he looks into Cas' eyes, if only to thank him for being the first sleepover (this isn't a one night stand, but Cas has them all beat on generosity, too) in which he was offered an actual, real live toothbrush. "Thanks, Cas."

Cas holds Dean's gaze for a moment longer, his red-rimmed eyes dancing between Dean's, before he nods and puts the toothbrush in his mouth.

"Hey," Dean starts after he's spit out the foamy toothpaste. "Last night was fun." It's not a lie so much as an assumption, because there is the trouble of his patchy memory; but Dean's sure it couldn't have been anything less than awesome, not with this ruffled little shit in front of him.

Cas nods slowly, a mess of toothpaste all around his mouth like he's never actually used it before.

"So, um," Dean doesn't know why he's so nervous. It's not like that time he tried to ask Rhonda Hurley out on a date, not at all; but then why the fuck is he getting deja vu? "D'you wanna do it again sometime?"

There's a moment of surprise across Cas' face, replaced quickly by the head-tilt, something that Dean feels is more familiar to him than it should be. Dean squirms under his gaze, but it's okay because Cas is sorta smiling anyway. He spits out the toothpaste and cleans off his face before responding.

"I think I'd rather not have a repeat performance of - you know," he says with a nod to the toilet.

Dean can feel his face flushing red with the rejection. It's not a big deal, he knows, because they're probably not going to be in the same state for another month or two, and they don't know each other, really, so it's not a big deal. It shouldn't be. It is.

"Besides," Cas continues, "I think next time I'd rather remember the entire thing."

Dean looks up, because that sounds a little like a yes.

"So, what? You wanna, uh, you wanna go out to dinner? See a movie?" Dean mentally facepalms. That came out like he was asking Cas on a date, which he's not. He's not.

Cas' lips twitch and Dean thinks for an instant that maybe Cas can see straight through him, straight through his - well, his straightness.

It's not that Dean's gay. He's not. He doesn't get excited when the team strips down after games, or when he gets ass-tapped by the guys on the ice. He doesn't jack off to dicks or make a habit of eyefucking men over beers; Dean's into boobs. Really. It's just that sometimes, every once in a while, Dean'll see pants as tight as classy will allow, or a smile that makes him stop in his tracks; and he guesses there's the whole thing with Dr. Sexy, which probably counts against the boobs argument. Point is, Dean's not gay. He's not looking for Cas to get in his ass or anything. He's not gay.

But Cas is chuckling out a yes, as in yes he would like dinner and a movie, and Dean thinks that this could be the start of something beautiful. Like a bromance or something. He can do that.

Cas gives Dean a t-shirt and sweatpants, because Cas' jeans don't fit over his ass (he tried). They smell like rain on pavement, like spring morning dew, and, yeah, that's Old Spice he's sniffing.

The t-shirt has COMETS printed across the front, their logo of a space rock with its tail arcing beneath.

"What if someone sees me?" Dean grumbles on the way out the door. "People have expectations."

"Just tell them your team let you go and we picked you up," Cas deadpans.

Dean snorts. "Great, I'll cause a league-wide panic."

"You're not that important, Winchester."

The laugh that Dean gives sounds fake to his own ears, because he is all too aware. "Yeah, I know, Cas."

They make it into the elevator, at which point Cas sort of collapses into Dean's side.

"It's so bright," he hisses into Dean's shoulder. Dean slowly wraps an arm around him, laying his own head on top of Cas’. It’s a strangely intimate position, not something that two guys fall into easier than Dean’ll start a fight on the ice, but it fits. Cas fits, folds into Dean like eggs into cake batter; his hair fits, even in the places where it's tickling Dean's nose; even the slow groan of irritation rumbling through Cas' throat, that feels more like purring than anything to Dean; it just fits.

"Do you want the sunglasses?" Dean asks, remembering the aviators in Cas' pocket.

"You said they look douchey."

"I didn't mean - look, if it's too bright, just put them on."

"I'm fine," Cas says in a small voice. He doesn't move.

And when a guy that looks painfully skinny gets on, Dean doesn't let go. He's not sure Cas even notices the new arrival’s curious stare. They ride in complete silence to ground level, except for that one pitiful "fuuuuck" Cas moans quietly.

When the doors open to the marble - floored lobby, Dean straightens Cas up and untangles himself as much as he can. He leaves his arm slung across Cas' shoulders, though. Just in case.

The guy riding with them steps out first, then, as Dean drags Cas across the threshold, turns back around.

"I don't want to interrupt anything," he says quickly, with a glance at Cas' slowly unslumping form, "But, uh, you're Dean Winchester, right?" Dean, though he's not really feeling it, flashes his championship interview smile and nods. "Bro, I'm a _huge_ fan."

Dean laughs and holds out a hand to shake. "Thanks. Nice to meet you, uh..."

"Garth," the man supplies, still shaking Dean's hand. "I just want you to know, I think you're singlehandedly bringing this team back into the league, and it's, man, it's balls."

Cas raises his head and looks from Garth to Dean and back again with a frown. "Balls?"

Dean shakes his head, his hand finding its way out of Garth's grip to scratch the back of his neck. "Nah, man, that ain't fair. We got a lot of talent here, and I'm just lucky I get to take some shots for 'em."

Garth nods in agreement, slapping Dean on the back in a too familiar gesture. Dean stiffens minutely, but Cas is the only one who notices.

As he's backing away, Garth points at Cas and Dean. "I just gotta say, man, no judgment. You guys are adorable."

Dean can feel his face twisting into a confused grimace as Garth leaves. He and Cas are alone, then, both of them blushing profusely.

"That was weird," Dean comments, trying to defuse the awkwardness of the situation.

Cas gives a nervous-sounding chuckle, and when Dean looks at him, he's steadily gazing into the infinity within the tile flooring.

Not for the first time does Dean wonder if Cas is playing for the other team (in more ways than one). Point one: when they'd been getting dressed earlier, Cas had legitimately ogled Dean, his eyes everywhere. That's not to say Dean didn't do some looking back; Cas is pale, everywhere except the dark happy trail that disappears into his boxers. Dean hadn't been able to take his eyes off it - but Cas is staring at him expectantly, brochure of local restaurants in his hand.

They end up at this little hole in the wall two streets over, the kind of diner that's more part of the 60s than this century. Dean is thrilled, and Cas even cracks a smile when he sees the red leather booths and chromed stools lining the breakfast bar. It's cozy - there’s only an elderly couple in the back corner and a hairy biker guy sitting at the bar.

Dean drags Cas over to the first booth he sees. He almost sits down beside Cas, but then he thinks that might be a little weird. Instead, he plants Cas into the cushions and takes the appropriate place directly across.

Cas takes off his sunglasses (turns out he only has one pair, and Dean’s still pretty good at navigating through sunny streets with limited vision and pulsating eyeballs) and sets them down on the table.

“This is an interesting place,” he says, looking around at the decor.

Dean chuckles. “I know diners can get skeevy, but they have the best food.”

A brown-haired woman pops out of the back room, the smell of cigarette smoke following her to their table. “Heya, guys, how you doin’? My name’s Liz, and, uh, here’re some menus.” She drops them down in front of each of them and smiles at Dean, then Cas. Dean thinks she’s actually kind of hot, with her blue eyes and nice assets.

“Hey, Liz.”

She shoots him a look that’s somewhere between amused and interested. “Our special for today is a bacon omelette, side of homefries and toast points.” Dean nods, chewing on his lower lip as his eyes flick from his menu and back to her again. “Can I get you guys something to drink?” They both ask for waters, which she runs and gets quickly before she gives them a few minutes to think the food over. Dean takes the opportunity to check out her ass, which looks pretty fine in those jeans.

“I’m not generally a breakfast person,” Cas says slowly. He’s still looking at Dean from behind his menu, creases starting up around his eyes that make him look immensely confused.

Dean takes this as a personal offense. “How do you _live_? You gotta like _something_.”

Cas shrugs. “One time I had pancakes. They weren’t physically repulsive.”

“What about sausages? Waffles? Eggs? Muffins. Man, you gotta like muffins.”

To everything Dean says, Cas shrugs. “I’ve never had a breakfast sausage.” He ignores Dean’s pained expression and continues, “Waffles just seem like glorified pancakes.”

“Cas, buddy, no.”

“Eggs are too wet.”

“You can get them burnt to a crisp if you wanna, it’s not a problem.”

“Muffins aren’t a breakfast food.”

"Your face isn’t a breakfast food."

“I'm glad we agree on something."

Dean glares across the table. "For that, you're trying the sausages. And french toast."

Cas arches an eyebrow but doesn't argue. "What are you getting?"

"The special sounded good," Dean says, running through the menu one last time.

Liz comes back then, like she knows that they've just decided. "You guys ready to order?"

Dean nods with a smile. "I'm gonna get the special, and while you’re at it, throw in a blueberry short stack." He hands her his menu with an almost accidental hand brush.

"And for you?" She redirects her attention to Castiel, who actually complies with Dean's demands and orders sausages and french toast.

"I'll get that order right in for you. Shouldn't be too long."

"Thanks, sweetheart," Dean says with a not so subtle wink. She laughs, tapping him on the shoulder with her pen before walking away.

Cas is staring at Dean. _Staring._ The moment their eyes meet, Cas’ gaze shifts down to his hands, fiddling away at his napkin. It’s the way he looks, the fixed blank stare, that makes Dean wonder what went wrong.

“Hey, Cas, ‘sup?”

Cas shrugs, taking his sweet time to look up. “I’m still not sure about the sausages, I guess.”

Dean frowns, because the stormy look on Cas’ face isn’t sausage second-guessing; it’s some misplaced form of disappointment that Dean can’t source. “Yeah. Okay.”

They spend a few moments in silence then, because Dean doesn’t know how to handle social situations and Castiel probably wouldn’t be interested in weighing the benefits of blueberries versus chocolate chips. But Dean can only read the ketchup bottle three times before he wants to smash it, before the silence is too much against the occasional clanking of dishes and spatulas in the kitchen.

“So what d’you like to do, other than rejecting slap shots?”

Cas shifts in his seat, his fingers dropping the napkin and his eyes finding Dean’s. “I know it’s weird,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face as he thinks about it, “but I like to keep bees.”

“ _Bees_? Like, bzzzz?” Dean flutters his hands like wings. Cas snickers in spite of himself.

“Yes, exactly. One of my acquaintances runs a bee farm outside of the city. I go out when I have the time to help him.”

“Wow. Okay, that tops my hobbies.”

“I doubt that,” Cas says, seriously.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, it’s mostly just taking care of my baby.” Cas’ eyes go huge, sending Dean backpedaling. “My car, she’s my baby. Not an actual, like, you know,” his hands are moving uselessly through the air. “Not a baby.”

Cas is still laughing when their food comes a few minutes later, and Dean is doing his best to die of shame. He only ekes out a small “thanks” when Liz slides their plates in front of them.

“What kind of car is it?” Cas asks, leaning over his food. Dean doesn’t even notice Liz pause at his side, words dying on her tongue before she shakes her head and walks away. When someone brings up his baby, he goes into oblivious fangirl mode (yes, he’s personally acquainted with fangirling; he’s seen Sam during the Game of Thrones).

“She’s a ‘67 Impala.” He starts to list some engine specs before he remembers that Cas has no reason to understand anything he’s saying. Instead,

“She’s gorgeous. My dad...uh, he sort of wrecked her, so I rebuilt her from the bottom up. Took me a while, but she’s worth it. You’ll have to see her next time you’re in Chicago. I shouldn't really have her up here, cause parking's shit, but I hate leaving her in Kansas all year.”

“You live in Kansas?” Cas looks up from the french toast he’s trying to cut. “That’s a long way from here.”

Dean shrugs. “The team’s centered in Illinois, so I’m not too far out. It’s just always been home for me.” He watches Cas take a bite of the toast, watches the consideration on his face. “Opinion?”

Cas swallows. “It’s actually pretty good.”

“Yeah? You a convert?”

“I don’t know, there are still the sausages.”

Dean grins as he smothers his pancakes in syrup, wolfing them down before Cas has worked out the socially acceptable manner to consume sausages. Eventually, Dean takes pity on the other man and gestures for the fork that’s been roving around, looking for weakness in the sausage’s skin.

“You just gotta-” he impales it unceremoniously, then hands the fork back. It’s pretty small, probably two bites worth; Dean knows that high society would have it diced into polite pieces, but present company was remarkably unconcerned with the shape of it.

“Just - just like this?” Castiel holds it a few inches from his mouth, his eyes meeting Dean’s with uncertainty. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, just like that. I promise.”

At first, Dean isn’t sure why he’s so invested in this sausage, in ensuring that Cas eats it and likes it. That lasts until the fucking meat stick disappears into Cas’ mouth and Dean realises; he realises that the way Cas’ lips close around it, the way his cheeks hollow out for a moment, the way his eyes blink shut for a second that turns into an eternity, accompanied by the soft moan of approval, because it turns out Cas really likes sausages; Dean realises that his subconscious wanted something, wants it still, because his dick is perking up real quick. He stuffs a hand down into his lap and squirms, thinking about Bobby naked and not the practically orgasmic dude sitting across from him. It works well enough that Dean no longer has to consider a quick detour to the bathroom, but if Cas keeps making that sound, Dean's going to have to return embarrassingly stained sweats.

"You like?" Dean asks, his voice husky. He clears his throat and looks at Cas, hoping his face isn't showing the same thing his body is feeling.

Cas nods, still too blissed out on his sausage high to analyse the blush painted over Dean's freckles or the way he's leaning in towards Cas.

"I didn't think I would like it this much," Cas says as he stuffs the other half in his mouth and swallows eagerly. "I can't believe how much I've been missing."

Dean wants to scream _me neither_ and clear the table with a sweep of an arm and show Cas another sausage he might like to -

Dean freezes, his eyes huge. _That's_ new. That's - that's a little gay. But, like, no homo, right?

Fuck. It's really homo.

"Dean? Are you alright?" Cas waves a hand in front of Dean's face. “You can have some if you want.”

Dean shakes his head to clear it. _Fuck_. “Nah, I’m good, thanks.”

“You sure?” Cas asks, shoving another sausage into Dean’s personal bubble. “They’re really good.”

Dean, not one to turn food away, concedes with a shrug. Cas holds the fork up to the other man’s mouth, watching expectantly as Dean takes it into his mouth. The air seems supercharged, what with the show Dean’s almost trying not to put on for Cas, and the way Cas’ eyes follow his every moment, the fork still dangling from his fingers.

The only explanation Dean can come up with is that he’s been possessed by some oversexed spirit, because he’s taking the most languorous chews, snaking his tongue out to get the grease off his lips. Eye-fucking takes on a new meaning with Cas staring him down from across the table. Dean’s more confused than ever, but he has to agree that the sausage is pretty fucking awesome.

“I told you they were a good idea,” Dean says, when his mouth is clear.

“What?” Cas blinks a few times.

“The sausages. They were a good idea.”

“Oh.” Cas nods. “Yes. I’m enjoying them. I guess you could say I’m a ‘convert’.” It takes everything Dean has not to burst out laughing at the way Cas uses air quotes.

Dean’s not sure that he wants Cas to know that this is his _let’s break the bed_ face. There’s a chance that they could become buddies - hockey buddies - and if there’s one thing Dean doesn’t have enough of, it’s fulfilling relationships. It’s gotten better in recent years, with Kevin and Chuck and Benny to dick around with; and no matter how much he hated it at first, the slight separation from Sam has done him good; but Dean still hasn’t really connected with anybody other than his three amigos (been able to stand anybody for longer than a good fuck or a good drink, really) in a while. And here he is, enjoying his breakfast with Castiel Novak, and if that isn’t a little fucking weird, Dean’s an amphibious unicorn.

Dean makes Cas try some of his bacon-centered omelette, using the ol’ faithful airplane fork. Cas only finds it mildly edible, and the couple at the back of the diner keeps shooting scandalised glances their way.

By the time they pay and walk out, Dean doesn’t even notice that Liz didn’t leave her number, because he’s too fascinated by Cas’ verbal autobiography. Usually, when he asks guys how they got into hockey, it’s because their parents set them on the ice at the age of 5 and kept them going until they realised that heavy practice could rake in the big bucks. Cas, though, Cas is different.

“My parents weren’t around much when I was a kid, so my older brothers had to raise my sister and me. From oldest to youngest, it goes Michael, Luke, Gabe, me, and then Anna. I’m thankful for my siblings, really.” Dean sidesteps a biker. Cas waits until they’re side by side again before continuing. “But Michael and Luke are only a year apart, and for as close as they were, they fought a lot. Gabe was going through his pranking phase - which he never really grew out of - so I was never safe from him. And Anna was too young to do much of anything, so they didn’t bother her.”

“Lemme guess. You were the punching bag?”

Cas sighs gustily, lifting the sunglasses slightly to squeeze the bridge of his nose. “The day that I broke, Gabe put raw eggs in both of my shoes and toothpaste in my Oreos. Michael and Luke were beating each other up for about two hours straight over this girl that they’d both called dibs on. I couldn’t take it anymore. They were just-” Cas dissolves into a groan.

“I walked out and kept walking until I found an ice rink about three miles away. That was the first day I put on skates. I was awful,” he says with a smile. “Terrible. But I went back every day, spent all of my free time there, until I was faster and better, and I guess it happened that the coach for the local training team saw me and liked me, because suddenly I was skating with other kids and trying to balance under another 10 pounds of gear. The program pulled me up through the levels and, well,” Cas raises his arms, “I’m here.”

“Wait, wait, how’d you go from star skater to goalie?”

Cas laughs. “Turns out I wasn’t as good at taking checks as I was at skating. They put me in the goal at first to hide the coach’s screw up, because I wasn’t the talent he thought he’d found. Imagine how surprised they were when I actually turned out alright.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Dean nudges him with an elbow. “You’re fucking amazing, man. One of the best goalies I’ve ever played.

Cas looks down bashfully. “You’re one of the scariest players I’ve ever faced.”

“Yeah, well. Fucked up the shot.”

“You kept saying that last night,” Cas says, sounding concerned. “It happens to everyone, Dean.”

Dean ignores the placating, turning slowly to the other man, his eyes narrow. “You remember last night?”

Cas nods slowly. “Most of it. There are a few dark parts.”

“Shit, man, what’d we do? Did we steal a tiger or something? I got nothing after we got back to the hotel.” Dean watched The Hangover a few months ago, and ever since, he’s convinced himself that faulty drunk memory equates to grand adventures that he just conveniently forgot.

Chuckling, Cas shakes his head. "We didn't do anything explicitly illegal, if that's what you're asking. We just stumbled back to the hotel and, uh, you - we - might've tried to skinnydip in the pool."

"Fuck." Dean slides a hand down his face. Bobby would kill him if he got any more bad publicity (re: girls, booze, and disturbing the peace), even though some of his groupies might pay some serious money to see Dean strip.

"The night manager came and took us back upstairs before we got too far," Cas quickly adds.

Dean's relieved. "The last thing I need is a dick pic circulating the internet." He doesn't mention that that's about the only part of his body the entire world hasn't seen yet. After headlines like _Dean Winchester: Shirtless Sighting, Hockey Phenom (with the Phenomenal Butt)_ , and _Apparently Professional Hockey Pays Better than Underwear Modelling_ , Dean's learned the dangers of a fixed schedule and early morning runs (sure, it keeps him fit, _but at what cost?_ ).

“I think you were spared on that front,” says Cas with a blush.

“Yeah, I hope so. Sometimes I lose my clothes when I get drunk.” Dean wants to take those words back as soon as he says them, because, wow, too much information. Cas is just laughing awkwardly, but his eyes aren’t meeting Dean’s and now Dean has a bad feeling.

“Cas?”

He’s trying for the innocent look, his eyes wide and his head tilted to the side.

“Did I – you know – did I…?”

Cas shakes his head slowly. "Not - not really.”

“Cas, buddy, out with it.”

“You sort of made our hallway a catwalk, and at the end of every pass, you took off an article of clothing. It was,” Cas searches for the right word, “amusing."

Dean’s first instinct is to dive into a dumpster and never emerge again, because Cas’ words bring up a hazy memory within him of the night before.

He stood in the middle of the hallway, Cas slouched against a wall.

“You ready?” Dean asked, his jacket already slipping to the ground with a thud. Cas nodded with a giggle, strange in his normally deep voice.

There is an art to walking like a sex symbol, like a porn star, like a lingerie model. Hockey players are rarely well-versed in the craft. A drunken Dean Winchester, against all odds, is.

Strutting his way down the hallway like an overgrown peacock would have been one thing, but Dean’s walk was pure hip motion. When he reached the far wall, he snapped around on a heel and slowly tugged his shirt up, up, over his head, to drop to the floor. He sashayed his way back past Cas, who occasionally burst into applause for a particularly dramatic step or a smoldering glance. The next pass took his shoes, and the following his socks; before he knew it, he was unzipping his jeans and shimmying out of them. He left them there on the floor as he stepped away, wearing nothing but plaid boxers and his necklace. He felt so free, the soft air hitting his – well, his everywhere. He danced down the hallway, his arms swinging around, and Dean could’ve sworn he was more coordinated drunk than he was sober (he wasn’t).

Dean only remembers in pieces after that, but maybe it’ll keep coming back with time; a close-up of Cas that he doesn’t want to bring up, because did Cas start it or did he? A failed attempt at getting Cas to hold his own strip show, failed because some lady came disapprovingly out of her room just as Dean was tugging the trenchcoat off. The boxers almost coming off, _almost_ , before Cas regained some sort of sense and told him to “hold off until later”, which Dean now realizes must have been a genius ploy to have wasted Dean wait until sober Dean returned. Cas standing on the bed, singing – was that Cherry Pie? – to Dean, with moves that looked to be on par with Napoleon Dynamite’s. Curling into Cas’ chest as Dean hit his depressed phase, his self-hatred disappearing wetly into Cas’ shirt in the form of stories, memories of his parents and Sammy and all the times Dean fucked up. Cas stroking his hair, telling him it’s okay, his soul is beautiful, weird hippie shit that calmed Dean down in record time.

Dean shakes his head. “Fuck, I’m sorry, man. It’s starting to come back to me.”

“It was one of the best nights of my life,” Cas says earnestly as they step back into the apartment complex. “I’m not sure I could consume such copious quantities of alcohol again, but I did enjoy it.”

They take the elevator back up, and this time, Cas is able to support himself. The apartment, Dean finds, is more trashed than he noticed this morning. His clothes are spread across the entire place, like he’d brought them in from the hallway, only to throw them in the air once inside.

“Can I borrow your phone?” Dean asks, because it’s approaching 12 o’clock and he distinctly remembers Bobby telling him that the bus leaves at 12:30 and if Dean is late again, he’s gonna get reamed out.

Cas tosses him an old flip phone. Dean smiles as he sees it, because he used to have the same model. Sam insisted he get an iPhone, because he wanted to be able to call without the ever-looming end of minutes, and probably also so he could send Dean disgustingly cute pictures of him and Jess and the apartment they just got out in California.

Dean decides to try his own number first. Hopefully Chuck'll pick up and tell him where the hell they’re staying.

It’s not Chuck who picks up.

“Hello?” It’s a chick, which is weird.

“Uh, hi, who is this?”

“Oh, I’m Becky. Who’re you?”

Dean frowns. The name sounds almost familiar, but then again, he’s still hungover.

“Dean, and that’s my phone you’re answering.”

“ _Oh my god_ , you’re Dean Winchester?” Her voice goes almost impossibly high. “Chuck, Chuck, wake up, Dean Winchester’s calling.”

Dean hears a faint, “You know I’m in the NHL too, Becky.”

“Yeah, but you’re not Dean Winchester.”

Dean covers his snort with a cough and waits until Chuck’s breathing comes on the line.

“What d’you want, Dean?”

“You should be addressing Dean Winchester as ‘Your Royal Highness’, first of all.”

“Screw you, asshole.”

“Wait, Chuck, don’t hang up. Where are you?”

“At the hotel?”

“Yeah, I got that, you shithead. What hotel? What’s the room number?”

“Just look at the email,” Chuck groans. “I don’t feel like dealing with the aftermath of your conquests right now.”

“Chuck,” Dean’s voice lowers into that region that he reserves for sex talk and death threats. Cas looks up from his duffle with a raised eyebrow, but Dean just shakes his head. “If I had the email, I wouldn’t be calling you. Just _read me the fucking address and room number_.” That does the trick. Chuck grumbles while he goes fishing for the key card, but he tells Dean what he needs to know. Dean hangs up with a quick “thanks, asshat” and hands the phone back to Cas.

“I guess I better be on my way,” he starts, feeling for some reason like he’s pulling a fuck-and-run. Staying here to unravel Castiel looks so much better than a terrifying plane ride back to Illinois, where they’ve got 5 days of heavy practice before their next scheduled game. He doesn’t want to leave.

They stand apart from each other for few seconds, until Dean holds out a hand to shake. Cas' grip quickly turns it into a bro hug. Dean has to thump Cas' back with one hand, just to make sure it stays bro.

"Next time we're in the same city, we'll get that dinner and a movie, okay?" Dean asks more for his benefit than for Cas', just to make sure Cas hasn't rethought his earlier decision and grown tired of Dean already.

The look on Cas' face, though, the honest smile that he gives Dean, almost answers better than the "Of course, Dean."

He has to sprint out of the lobby once the elevator opens, and it's quicker to just run along the sidewalks than to call for a cab, and by the time he's nearly there, he realises that he left his clothes with Cas after all; but Dean finds the hotel in ten minutes, and the smile across his face hasn't left since he stepped out of Cas' hotel room.

Becky is nowhere to be found by the time he makes it up to the room he's sharing with Chuck. Chuck just raises an eyebrow as he opens the door to let Dean in.

"Glad you could make it," he says. Dean tries not to punch him in the face.

"Shut up, Chuck."

His bag is conveniently still packed, so he and Chuck head out at the same time. It's not until they're in the elevator that Chuck remembers Dean's phone, thankfully still in his pocket.

"Not to be nosy or anything," he says as he hands it to Dean, "but where the hell were you?"

Dean pockets it. "Out," he says vaguely.

"Oh, that clears it up."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I got smashed, so a, uh, a friend let me sleep over."

"A friend?" Chuck elbows him suggestively. "A lady friend?"

Dean just shrugs. He's not in the mood for Chuck's prying.

"I guess she's a fan of the wrong team, though."

"What?"

Chuck points at Dean's shirt. His stomach sinks. He'd forgotten he was a walking ad for their rival team, and the guys would never shut up about it if they saw it.

"Shit, shit, fuck." Dean drops his bag and opens it, looking for a sweatshirt to cover up. By the time his head is through the hole, the elevator's at the ground floor. Chuck's just looking at him thoughtfully in that weird omniscient way he sometimes has about him.

“What?”

“That’s not a woman’s shirt.”

“Chuck-”

He suddenly gets very close to Dean, almost too close, and looks into his eyes. “Who’d you fuck on the Comets?”

Dean pushes Chuck aside and strides through the lobby, trying to ignore the fear knotting through his chest. Being a gay professional athlete isn’t easy - hell, being a straight professional athlete isn’t easy - and not that Dean discredits his team, but he doesn’t want them to look at him differently just because they think he fucked a guy (which he didn’t). There’s a fuckton of guys coming out in the news now, and with every announcement, a whole slew of judgement. And besides, Dean isn’t gay.

“Dean." Chuck grabs his arm.

“I didn’t-” Dean lowers his voice as he sees the crowded lobby. “I didn’t fuck anyone, okay?”

"What's with the shirt then?"

"I told you, I got fucking plastered and Cas - shit."

Chuck's eyes narrow. "Cas?"

"Nobody, man. Can you just drop it?" For the first time, Dean meets Chuck's eyes.

Chuck puts his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, man. Just wanted to keep in the loop.”

“Yeah, well, there is no loop. Nothing happened.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know what happened with the sausages, but it happened and i shan't apologize.  
> thanks for continuing to read!


	4. Mostly Texting

Chuck and Dean aren’t the last ones on the bus. It’s 12:29 by the time Dean sits down in his window seat, Chuck next to him. Bobby raises an eyebrow when he realises that Dean isn’t missing, for once. It’s Benny that comes in late, Benny who throws the charming my bad smile at Bobby, Benny who pops in next to Kevin, behind Dean and Chuck.

“How you doin’, brother?” He thumps the back of Dean’s seat with a fist. Dean rises in his seat to do their standard greeting; the one-armed handshake hug that’s become something of a trademark for them.

“Great,” Dean says. “Awesome. Chuck’s a douche.”

“No surprise there,” Kevin quips drily.

“Thanks, Kevin.” Chuck rolls his eyes.

The banter continues per their usual routine; bitching and cursing and punching and just generally being asshats. Kevin’s always surprisingly involved in it - surprising because he’s supposed to be the educated one and his curses are on par with those of a 20th century dock worker.

After they make it to the airport and get on the plane, though, it settles down, and everyone’s disappearing into their headphones and phones. Dean does the same, turning on some Zeppelin and staring into the depths of his recent call list.

It’s just sitting there, staring at him; waiting for him to make a move. His thumb hovers over the text button. It’s only been an hour, and Dean’s not sure if the three day rule applies to new friends that you’d maybe like to fuck.

In the end, Dean hits it, because Chuck’s head lolls onto his shoulder and Dean’s finger slips as he flinches away. He stares at the blank box for half an album, typing out “hey”, then replacing it with “hi”, and then erasing that because it sounds too disinterested.

Eventually, he comes up with something that doesn’t make him hate himself.

**To Cas:**

**Hey man, forgot I still have your clothes**

Barely. He barely doesn’t hate himself.

Cas texts back quick, though, and Dean definitely does not almost throw his phone into Chuck’s face in his haste to read the response.

**To Dean:**

**It’s okay, Dean. I have yours, too. We’ll have to switch the next time we meet.**

Dean feels like a 16 year old girl. He wants to squeal and flail and giggle - so, clearly, Blue Steel it is.

**To Cas:**

**Okay. That works**

**To Dean:**

**It appears that the next time we play each other is in 23 days.**

**To Cas:**

**So December in Chicago?**

**To Dean:**

**Yes. I’m very excited.**

**Dean smiles, but before he can respond, another text comes through.**

**To Dean:**

**I don’t know why.**

**To Cas:**

**I understand, Cas. I’m pumped too**

**To Dean:**

**How is the flight?**

**To Cas:**

**Everyone’s asleep already. Not as fun as last night & I fuckin hate planes**

**To Dean:**

**Last night is a lot for a plane to live up to.**

**To Cas:**

**Touche. Are you doin anything fun right now?**

**To Dean:**

**Not really. I’m just texting you.**

**To Cas:**

**Awh, man, I’m flattered u think I’m fun**

**To Dean:**

**Texting you is more enjoyable than listening to Uriel and Balthazar gossip about me.**

**To Cas:**

**If they’re being dickbags just punch them out at practice**

**To Dean:**

**It’s not a problem. They just seem to enjoy psychoanalyzing my every move.**

**To Cas:**

**Anything accurate?**

**To Dean:**

**"Castiel looks like he got smashed last night."**

**To Cas:**

**Well you did**

**To Dean:**

**"Probably f***ed a prostitute by accident."**

**To Cas:**

**Smash their heads together and beat them with a hardback copy of eragon**

**To Dean:**

**I don't understand that reference.? Anyway, I can hardly injure my teammates before the Penguins tomorrow.**

**To Cas:**

**Just don’t let em talk shit about you cas. You don’t deserve that**

**To Dean:**

**Thank you, Dean. It really doesn't bother me very much anymore. Uriel can actually be quite funny.**

**To Cas:**

**Yeah well. If they get too bad just lemme know and I’ll come break them for u**

**To Dean:**

**I feel that I should tell you that you just gave me my first homicide proposal. I'm blushing.**

Dean almost bursts out laughing. As it is, he can't stop the surprised chuckle from escaping his throat. Cas is funny, and if this feels like flirting, well, that's just the cherry on top.

**To Cas:**

**Only for you, Cas**

**To Dean:**

**Actually, I think I could use you right now.**

**To Cas:**

**What happened?**

**To Dean:**

**They are tryuuujfhnr jhktkrie3fj8**

**To Cas:**

**R u ok?**

**To Dean:**

**yes I'm fine. But dean can you remind me what happened last night? Balthazar doesn't belueve me.**

**To Cas:**

**Yeah we went to a few bars then we rescued some stray kittens**

**To Dean:**

**Really?**

**To Cas:**

**This isn’t Cas is it**

**To Dean:**

**No this is Cas. you remember we fucked last night right**

**To Cas:**

**Must've slipped my mind, balthy.**

**To Dean:**

**Cas is such a pussy he probably didnt tell you he wishes you did**

Dean sits back in his chair, heart pounding. He knows it's not Cas - it's Balthazar, weird fucking name. But if they're friends - if Cas really had said that -

Another text comes in before he can thoroughly work himself up into something.

**To Dean:**

**I'm so sorry about them, Dean. I apologize if they sent anything offensive. Balthazar deleted the texts.**

Dean exhales slowly. He's not about to ask Cas to verify Balthazar's words, because that could go to hell as easily as it could go to the bedroom.

**To Cas:**

**Its fine. They were just being general douchebags**

**To Cas:**

**I might knock out someone’s teeth in dec though**

**To Dean:**

**I should tell you not to but I think I’d be okay with that.**

Dean doesn’t stop texting Cas; not for the rest of the flight, not for the rest of the day, and that’s how they do it for the rest of the month. There’s a few hours’ break for practices, and during games, but it’s like Dean’s phone is suddenly his most valuable possession, his only link back to that dark-haired goalie with sex hair.

As soon as they’re back in Illinois that day, Dean has a short practice, but they pick it back up again after dinner (5 tacos for Dean, 3 burgers for Cas - if you play hockey, you gotta eat). And late in the gassy, gassy night, alone in his room, Dean falls asleep with his phone cradled to his chest and **“Good night, Dean.”** faded out on the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right, well, you guys know what to do! thanks for hanging in there. 
> 
> note: posting the next ~ 7,000 words tomorrow


	5. Gabriel's on ESPN

Dean is losing his shit. He’s fucking _losing_ it. There’s only, like, 12 hours until _the day_ , when he’ll have to face down Cas on the ice and then face him down across the table a few hours later. He's not sure which he's more nervous about.

He makes it through the day with little incident, except for Benny's "you okay, brother?" after a bit of a bungle of a shooting drill, to which Dean lies with a firm and resounding yeah.

Dinner isn't bad, since they're home and the kitchenette is pretty effective for making four pounds of spaghetti and meatballs for him and Chuck to split.

Chuck and Dean are sort of an anomaly. Their friendship doesn't always make sense to people around them, and it sure as hell doesn't make sense to Dean. Chuck has a tendency to be whiny and reclusive, and he's absolute shit at cooking and cleaning. He spends most of his free time writing some weird paranormal thriller or something that he won't let anyone read, but he seems pretty confident that it'll get published some day. The thing is, though, that Chuck's as big of a closeted nerd as Dean is, so they can hang Star Wars and Zeppelin posters all over the condo and it gives both of them the same amount of pleasure. And on the alcoholic scale of alcoholism, Chuck and Dean are just about tied for the amount of feelings lost in the bottle. The biggest thing, Dean thinks, is that Chuck is unusually understanding. It doesn't make sense, not really; because he doesn't _have_ to deal with Dean complaining about how Sam undervalues family, or Dean's routine of brooding for a few days and then breaking out in overly emotional outbursts that have him checking for bleeding lady parts; Chuck doesn't have to stay there while Dean's having a sexuality crisis, and he doesn't have to keep it just between the two of them and pretend there’s no judgment. He doesn't have to, but he does, and Dean's always found himself drawn to the loyal. That's why when Dean realised that he couldn't live alone, he went to Chuck. That's why Chuck made it seem like Dean was asking him to a big sleepover instead of using him as a night light. Chuck wasn't a dick when they found a good-sized condo and moved into their new respective rooms, and for that, Dean can never (silently) thank him enough. Chuck is Dean's best friend, and he's kind of gotten over the improbability of it by now.

After dinner, Dean begins to wander away and Chuck, recognising that he wants to be alone, just punches Dean on the shoulder and starts on doing the dishes. That’s why Dean’s in his room alone at seven thirty, perched on the edge of his bed in the dark. The TV’s muted on ESPN, some women’s soccer game in South America. He’s not watching it so much as being hypnotised, allowing himself to be distracted by the smooth passes that weave across the field.

With a start, he opens his eyes and realises he fell asleep with his head in his hands. The soccer game is gone now, replaced with - hey, hockey! Dean unmutes it, because when ESPN’s actually covering hockey, it’s exciting, regardless of who the hell they’re talking about.

One of the anchors looks at his co-anchor, shuffling his papers importantly. “So, Gabe, got anything to say about the Comets’ game last night?”

Dean sits up. _He_ has plenty to say about the Comets’ game, mainly that Cas kicked some serious ass, and that Balthazar needed to put his money where his mouth was when he started on the drives that he couldn’t finish.

Gabe, though, he just gives a shit-eating grin. “Well, you already know what I’m gonna say about Castiel, right? I taught the kid everything he knows.”

Dean is hit with the sudden realisation that this must Gabe - Castiel’s Gabriel, the pranking dickwad of an older brother. He leans forward to observe him; golden hair down past his ears, slicked back in a way that somehow doesn’t remind Dean of an Italian mob boss; the smirk that seems a permanent installment on his face; the use of one or both eyebrows to convey a point, through waggling or arching or any other strange manipulations, which prompts Dean to play with his own.

“I got him to sit down with me after the game - not easy, lemme tell you. I mean, considering we’re brothers, you’d think he’d be more willing to give me an interview.”

The other anchor laughs. “Well, considering you’re Gabe, I don’t blame him.”

Gabe looks like he’d very much like to flip his co-anchor off, but the show goes to the interview before anything drastic happens.

If Dean were on the edge of his seat any more, he’d be levitating because seriously he’s going to fall off the bed and - oh shit, there he goes. He clambers back up with a huff and pretends that nothing happened, because he’s a grown man, dammit. Nobody needs to know.

Cas’ face is taking up the screen, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“So, Cas, tell me, what d’you think of your performance tonight?”

Cas shifts around on the seat. “Well, my defense was very strong, so I didn’t have to make many challenging saves.”

“Ah, Cas, always about the team, right?”

“They’re the ones who win the games, so, yes.”

The camera flashes to Gabriel, narrowing his eyes at Cas. When it returns to the athlete, Dean can make out the faintest smile around Cas’ eyes. A bark of laughter escapes him, because to anyone else, it’d look like Cas is just unbelievably humble (which, yeah, he kind of is); but Dean knows that this is Cas messing with Gabe, because now he’s the one with the power.

“Great. Okay. How ‘bout some easier questions, then, to share with the world the wonder that is Castiel Novak. Favorite color?”

Dean thinks blue, maybe. He can’t reason why, exactly - maybe it’s the eyes, maybe it’s just the vibe.

“Cerulean,” Cas answers with a smile.

“Cerulean,” Gabe repeats, rolling his eyes. “He’s so pretentious. It’s [beep]ing blue.”

Dean fist pumps, because he’s a fucking boss at color-guessing. He’s starting to like Gabe, against his better judgment. Dude’s a dick, but at least he’s funny.

“Now for the ladies, … or the gents,” he adds after a short pause. They don’t show Cas’ face, but Dean wishes he could see his reaction, wishes he could know if Gabe was just being an asshole or if he was changing his script to fit Castiel’s sexual preference. “What do you look for in a partner?”

“ _Gabe_ ,” Cas hisses, looking absolutely mortified. “I’m not -”

“Oh, shut up, Cas. You need to get with someone, frankly, and I’m a bit disappointed you haven’t used your career to lay a supermodel by now.”

“ _Gabriel_.” Cas looks like he’s searching for an escape route. Dean’s actually going to shit himself - this is really fucking funny. He’s not sure how Gabe even managed to get this aired, because it doesn’t seem to be the same caliber that ESPN interviews are generally made of.

“C’mon, Cas, just gimme an answer and we can move on.”

Cas sighs. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start off with eyes, hair, occupation, and personality, and we’ll see where it goes from there.”

Cas looks like he’s going to strangle Gabriel, and Dean’s almost concerned. He guesses he would’ve heard about an on-air murder by now, though, so he figures they must both make it through relatively unscathed.

“Fine.”

“Folks, we have the perks of being the older brother _captured on film_.”

“I’m going to - okay. Okay. Eyes?” Cas holds up a finger like he’s checking off a list. “Green. Or anything.” Dean blinks a few times - blinks his green eyes, which is sorta - okay, it’s a coincidence, right? “Brown hair is good.” Another finger. Is Dean’s hair brown? Does that count? Should it bother him that everyone else has always called it dirty blonde?

“Occupation,” Gabe prompts when Cas pauses for too long.

“Gabe, this is ridiculous.”

“I have blackmail pictures.”

“You don’t - “

“Your 24th birthday. Don’t push me.”

Cas is suddenly quiet.

“Occupation,” Gabe pushes.

“I don’t - I don’t know, Gabe, I don’t sit around thinking about these things for fun.”

Gabe smirks into the camera. “More evidence that Castiel isn’t human.”

“Fine, you know what? A mechanic. A funny, smart, likeable mechanic with a southern accent  that likes classic rock.”

Gabe stares at Cas. Dean stares at Cas. The whole world could be staring at Cas right now, for God’s sake, because -

“That seems awfully specific, Cas.”

A blush starts up on Cas’ cheeks. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Well, yeah, it just seems like - _oh_. Okay. Never mind. Who’s your all-time favorite hockey player?”

Gabe switches gears too fast, and Cas answers with something appropriate, like Gretzky, but Dean feels too numb to hear it. He remembers that conversation with Cas a week ago, the one that went something like this:

**To Dean:**

**What would you do if you weren’t a hockey player?**

**To Cas:**

**Ummm I’m not sure. Let me think about it for a sec but what about you?**

**To Dean:**

**I always thought I would like to be a teacher. Maybe something with history. Or perhaps an archaeologist, though I would fear breaking something important.**

**To Cas:**

**DUDE you’d be like indiana jones you gotta. I can see the teacher thing too though. There’s still time for whatever you wanna do**

**To Dean:**

**You’re right. I don't think I could stop working once I retire from hockey. Have you thought of anything?**

**To Cas:**

**I guess I always figured if it wasn’t gonna be hockey it'd be engineering. Maybe not the kind you need a degree for but I’ve always liked working with cars and I think thats what I’ll be doing in a few years**

**To Dean:**

**I wish I understood cars. You have to be very smart to be able to do what it sounds like you do, Dean. It suits you.**

**To Cas:**

**What, the idea of me in a wifebeater with grease across my forehead? Hahahha and sam's the smart one, I told you**

**To Dean:**

**That's not far from what I was picturing.. and you know that's not true.**

And then it had been ferried off into something about TLC and Say Yes to the Dress, which wasn't really a big deal except now Cas is actually addicted, but what is a big deal is Cas and his fucking cerulean eyes, looking somewhere off camera as he answers Gabe's questions in his deep voice.

Dean feels like he's maybe going to have a panic attack, so he does what he normally does when he doesn't know what to do - he shoves his hand down his pants.

That’s not true.

It’s not like it's a knee jerk reaction.

It’s _Cas_.

It’s not socially acceptable to jack off thinking about your possibly mostly straight friend that you’re not dating and have only met in person once. It’s probably not socially acceptable that he’s doing in front of the tv that’s currently running a special on his possibly mostly straight friend that he’s not dating, either, but Dean’s past caring.

He begins to stroke himself, his eyes falling closed so he can picture what this would be like with Cas' hand.

Cas has thin, artistic fingers, the kind that would twist up at the end of every pull, like that - Dean catches the gasp before it escapes. Cas' hair - his hair, it would be sex, pure sex, like usual, his mouth running kisses up and down the inside of Dean's thighs.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean breathes.

And Cas would respond with a guttural " _Dean_ ", the kind that could probably make his toes curl without any context.

His hand is going faster now, his hips rising to meet it as Cas' voice continues in the background.

" _Oh my God_."

"...biggest game coming up..."

He's falling back into the bed, the sheets bunched under the clench of his fist.

"...great player, Dean Winchester..."

It is as the last syllable of Winchester comes, tumbling out of Cas' mouth, that Dean comes as well, with starry eyes and a low grunt. It's the sound of his name that tips him over the edge. Since he's in Bliss City, though, he doesn't hear _why_ , exactly, Castiel Novak gave him a shoutout on network television and, well, that's the big question, right?

He wants to watch the end of Cas' interview, but his eyelids are acting like the opposite poles of two magnets as soon as he's cleaned up and sprawled under the covers and he falls asleep to the sound of Cas and Gabriel arguing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo, gabe.  
> also chuck is probably really ooc but i just love chuck and i apologize for what i did to him and i have this headcanon that if things were different he and dean would've been friends.


	6. Game #2

**To Cas:**

**You ready?**

**To Dean:**

**I've been preparing for months for these three periods.**

**To Cas:**

**I can't even tell if that's sarcasm anymore**

**To Dean:**

**Me neither, but good luck tonight all the same.**

**To Cas:**

**I don't think you're supposed to tell the other teams leading scorer good luck Cas**

**To Dean:**

**I'm probably not supposed to go out to dinner with him, either.**

**To Cas:**

**Well in that case fuck social conventions and good luck to you too. Gotta go get my tutu on**

Dean's walking into the sports center as he sends the last text. As much as he'd like to flirt with Cas up until the face off, he wants to get his head in the game and Cas makes that awfully hard.  

Benny nudges him with a shoulder. "You ready for vengeance?"

"What?"

"Against that goalie, Novass or whatever."

Dean readjusts his bag, just to give his hands something to do. He loves Benny, he does, but sometimes he needs a punch in the face. "It's Novak," Dean mutters.

Benny looks at him weird. "Does it matter?"

Dean forces out a laugh. "Nah, man, you're right. Must be Novass."

Benny's not an idiot. He knows something's up, but just as his mouth is opening to ask the question, Kevin appears, looking distraught.

"Have you guys seen my laptop anywhere? I thought I might've left it here."

Dean stifles a snicker. He knows exactly where it is, but he's not about to snitch on his favorite blogger/fan relations manager.

"Dean?" Kevin narrows his eyes. 

"Hey, man," Dean backs up into Benny, his hands stretched out like he's calming a lethal creature. "I didn't do anything." There's a smile on his face that he can't hide, though, and Kevin's not an idiot.

"I'm not an idiot. Give it back."

"I swear I don't have it, Kev. I - hey, Charlie!"

The redhead bulls into Dean with a hug, distancing him from Kevin's killer puppy glare.

"How was the drive?" She asks as Dean peels away, pretending that he didn't initiate the hug as much as she did. "Did you get anything for me?"

Dean laughs. "I might've picked a little somethin’ up."

Charlie's practically bouncing. "Is it the limited edition Batman - the one I emailed you about?"

"Charlie," Dean says with a frown. "You know that's crazy rare."

"So did you get it?"

A grin takes over his face, and before he can even answer, she squeals and hugs him again.

"You're the best, Dean. Really. I gotta run, but I better see you after the game with my comic and a drink."

And then she's off again, telling everyone good luck and slapping butts and, almost as an afterthought, she pulls a Mac out of her messenger bag and deposits it in Kevin's hands.

"I had to borrow it for an ad, sorry," she says, and Kevin doesn't even have a chance to flip shit before she's gone.

That's the way Charlie is - an entrance with a boom and a swirl of fangirl, and an exit with the promise of more, always. Kevin gets over it, because it's Charlie, around the same time that Dean realizes that he forgot to tell her that he's busy - or maybe it's more that he doesn't want to explain himself, not now, not to Benny and Kevin. He decides to text her after the game, figuring that he'll be able to make it up to her tomorrow with a Star Wars marathon and a Hogwarts-themed dinner and some girl talk that he will never ever in one million years admit to having with her.

Nobody's talking about "Novass" as they head into the locker room to suit up, so Dean counts that as a win. Benny seems to have forgotten about it by the time they shuffle out onto the ice, and Chuck's just hanging out by Dean's elbow like he sometimes does when he gets overwhelmed.

"You okay?" Dean asks as they do a warm up lap around the rink. He feels like someone should be asking him the same - his chest feels constricted, like stress-induced asthma.

Chuck shrugs unconvincingly. "I don't want to lose this one."

"Yeah, me neither."

They skate in silence for a few moments, then Chuck bursts out, "Becky's coming."

Dean furrows his brow. "Becky? Phone Becky?"

"Yeah, the one with the flower crown." Dean is suddenly struck with understanding, a face to put to the name - it turns out no matter how drunk you are, you never forget a flower crown.

"What's wrong with that?"

"Well," Chuck exhales quickly, "it's just - she's never come to one before, and - now I know she'll be here - and I don't want to fuck up. Like you and Cas."

Dean stops abruptly. It takes Chuck a few seconds to realise he isn't beside him anymore, but by the time Chuck comes skating back, Dean's fiddling with his skates in an attempt at looking casual.

"Don't talk about him," Dean says conversationally, eyes on his laces. "Don't bring him up around anyone." He finally meets Chuck's gaze with a set jaw. "No one can know, okay?"

“There’s nothing wrong with you guys being friends.” Chuck’s eyeing Dean suspiciously. “Right?”

Dean stands up. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Dean-”

“Just drop it, okay?”

Chuck shakes his head and skates away, leaving Dean to wipe a hand down his face in discomposure. Whatever. Right?

They only have a few more minutes before the Comets start in on the ice, and then they’re all squashed in their own half. Chuck catches Dean’s eye with a pointed glance at the other team, starting to warm up and pass the pucks between them. Dean scans the men, but Cas is nowhere in sight. He starts to shake his head, starts to turn around, but then, there - and air is suddenly a hell of a lot harder to come by.

Cas steps onto the ice, buried in the equipment that always did look too big on him, now that Dean thinks about it. His helmet is tucked under an arm, giving Dean a view of the blue eyes and sex hair that've been on his mind since the first time he saw Cas.

The moment Cas is fully ice-bound, he pulls some turning maneuvers and cleverly ends up standing a little bit too close to the 'Guns. He doesn't have to look very long to find Dean, frozen in place with a sniper-aimed stare locked on Cas. When their eyes do meet, finally, after these stupid, confusing weeks, Dean is struck with a very disconcerting realisation. Cas still looks hot.

He wants to fuck Cas.

More importantly, he wants Cas' dream girl to be him.

The scary thing is his priorities - that he suddenly values this emotional connection above the potential physical one. That's why he doesn't say anything to Cas, reduced to just sharing a secretive smile and turning back to their own teams like nothing's off. It's because Dean doesn't want to break it. And also that he's not gay. Really.

But Dean’s a professional athlete; he literally gets paid shitwads of money because he’s able to separate his thoughts and feelings from the game - that and his skill with a stick and a puck. So, he quashes his emotions and puts on his helmet and shrugs himself into fight mode.

It starts out slow. The faceoff goes Colt’s way, but only for a second, before R. Godson tries for a shot. Benny checks him into the wall and Colt heads up with the puck, only to be shut down, sharply, by Bartholomew. Dean slips into that role that’s easy for him, the animalistic hunter that will stop at nothing to score a goal.

He weaves past Bartholomew, catching the puck on his stick and pushing it along in front of him as he dodges Godson’s check and passes off to Benny. Now it’s Dean circling around that smarmy jackass, Balthazar, waiting for Benny’s shot and the follow-up on the rebound. Cas easily shuts down Benny’s attempt and sends the puck back out to U. Godson on the right, and Dean heads back onside.

It goes on like that for a while - the puck yo-yoing back and forth between Chuck and Cas, occasionally pausing for a body to smash into the boards or a faceoff to go nowhere. It’s not until they’re nearly through the second period that things start to get interesting.

Dean hasn’t taken a real shot yet. He’s had a few long-distance, unthreatening clappers, but it’s just been Benny up close and personal, Benny trying to wedge the puck between Cas and the post, Benny getting knocked around hard. For as much shit he likes to talk about being able to sit on his feelings, he’s finding it hard to work himself up to taking a shot on Cas when he’s close enough to see those eyes through the mask. Bobby tells him as he slips over for a quick sip of Gatorade that he “better start putting his stick to use, idjit,” and he finally sees his chance.

His left defender, Adam, crosses the puck to Dean, who receives it mid-turn and heads up the ice. Benny’s a second behind him, Colt taking his time after his quick retreat a minute earlier. It’s just Dean, really. Dean and Cas. Balthazar falls behind as Dean puts on the speed that no one ever seems to expect from him. He doesn’t look at Cas - _can’t_ look at him - as he winds up, only to finesse the shot in the gap between Cas’ shoulder and the upper post. It’s in the milliseconds after the puck leaves his stick that he’s finally able to look at Cas, to take in the narrowing of his eyes and the way his body seems to coil with energy. Almost as if in slowmo, he sees the puck whipping into the back of the net.

It’s the freeze-frame vision, he thinks, that plants a nasty thought in the back of his mind, because if everything hadn’t slowed down, he wouldn’t have seen Cas hesitate.

It might have been nothing, he thinks as Benny and Victor crash into him, pounding on his helmet.

It might have been nothing, he thinks as the period ends.

It might have been nothing, he thinks as Chuck proves his worth and successfully fends off every rocket that comes his way.

It really might have been nothing.

It would have been nothing, but Dean’s Dean and he’s pretty sure it wasn’t nothing, and Cas probably just felt bad about Dean’s stupid drunk fixation with the shot he missed the last time they clashed.

It would have been nothing, but the 'guns go on to shut out the Comets and everyone's patting him on the back and the stupid reporter keeps asking him, "What does it mean to you? What does this win mean?" And all he really wants to do is grab the goddamn microphone and say how it's nothing, it might be nothing, but that's not the answer anybody wants, so he just gives a smile and a vague response that Chuck may or may not have used immediately before him.

He tries to collect his thoughts in the shower before the post-game press conference. Cas is a professional, he knows. He wouldn't hurt the team's record just to give the other team's lead scorer some peace. It's out of character, Dean reasons. Even though nearly all he's got to build his view of Cas' personality are texts, it's out of character.

After he quickly showers (two minutes is thorough enough, right?), he returns to sit in front of his locker and glare into oblivion, but Benny plops down on the bench beside Dean, jarring him out of his thoughts.

"What's up with you, brother? You been acting funny lately."

Dean shrugs. What's he supposed to say, "we won the game because I'm buddy-buddy with the other team's goalie"? That's an exile-able offense and Dean likes his friends alright, thank you very much.

"My head hasn't been in the right place," he says slowly. "Things goin' on in my personal life. I'm good now, though. I'm fine."

Dean doesn't see the way Benny narrows his eyes because he's staring at the locker in front of him. He hardly even feels the bear claw Benny claps on his shoulder as he makes his departure, because he's too far into Dean-world trying to process everything. It's useless, though; he's always been a doer rather than thinker, and this is no different.

He gets up and follows the rest of the team out to the press conference, which is even more hellish than usual. The journalists are acting like he saved the fucking world and yeah, he'd probably be eating it up if it weren't for his inner unease.

"Ready to celebrate?" Adam asks innocently after the conference. "Benny's got a setup back at his place. I think it's gonna be a good one."

Dean forces his lips into a smile as he hoists his bag on his shoulder. "I wish, man. I'm - I gotta do a thing. Have a shot for me, though."

Adam calls out to him as he begins to walk away, "Have fun with your thing, Dean. Your really suspicious thing."

Half the team hears and suddenly he's the focus of a lot of confused and mildly betrayed stares.

"Got a thing," he raises his hand in an awkward goodbye. "Got a personal thing." Trying to ignore the feeling that they're about to stone him, he steps backwards again and waves. "Adios."

Chuck threads through of the crowd to join Dean. "Yeah, I have a thing too, sorry, guys."

The betrayal fades out of their teammates’ eyes as they remember that there’s no obligation to show up to the post-game party; a lot of the guys have girlfriends or wives that they like to see after the game and it’s not unusual for at least some to ditch. It’s just weird that it’s Dean, because Dean’s always the one with empty bottles piled up by his chair and a pretty girl in his lap.

The pair of them duck out of the locker room, into the empty hallway outside.

“What’s your thing?” Dean asks.

“What’s _your_ thing?” Chuck counters.

“I asked you first,” Dean says, feeling like a little kid again.

Chuck doesn’t argue, though. “ _Becky_ ,” he says as they pass through the door. The air hits them like a wall, cold and sharp, almost swallowing Chuck’s words before it spits them back out into the night. “She wants to see me.”

Dean smirks as they head to the parking lot. “You sure she’s not a gold digger?”

“She’s not.” The firmness in Chuck’s tone has Dean raising his eyebrows. “She’s good people, Dean.”

Dean redirects the energy it would take to roll his eyes and instead claps Chuck on the back.  “Good for you, man.”

Chuck grins nervously. “I have to get this right, Dean. Really. She’s important.”

“You’ll be fine, Chuck. Everyone - well, that’s a lie. Some people love you. She’ll love you,” he hurriedly finishes as Chuck tries to shove him off the sidewalk.

“What about you?” Chuck lowers his voice. “It’s Cas, right? Cas is your thing?”

The blush that rises on Dean’s cheeks is unmistakable. “Yeah. Yeah, Cas is my thing.”

“So, what, dinner and a movie? Don’t come back to our place, Becky wants to see the bachelor pad and I take no responsibility for what we’re doing and where we’re doing it.”

Dean grimaces. “Did not need the mental image, Chuck.”

“Just, uh, go back to his place or something.”

“You’re not helping.”

They’re at the Impala now, Chuck’s ‘68 GTO the next spot over. Sometimes they carpool, but they both knew tonight was going to be one of those ‘separate ways’ kind of times.

“Wait, Dean, before you go.” Dean pauses halfway into the car. “It’s - I don’t know if this is why you’ve been weird lately, but it’s no big deal if you’re - if you like Cas. It doesn’t change anything. Nobody on the team would begrudge you that, so...you don’t have to worry about it.”

Dean drops the rest of the way into his seat. It’s not that he didn’t figure Chuck’d be cool about it, it’s just that Chuck actually being cool about it feels a lot better than it did in his mind.

“I’m not gay,” is all he can say.

Chuck just shrugs. “Does it matter? Have fun, Dean.”

Dean closes the door in a sort of shell-shock, but even through the window, he can hear Chuck shout, “ _I’m gonna get laid!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> '68 GTOs are gorgeous.  
> next chapter is THE DATE THAT CAS DOESN'T KNOW IS A DATE  
> aren't you excited  
> UPDATE: ugh guys i'm really sorry this is taking so long, it's probably going to be a 6000 word chapter because there's no good place to break it. hang in there; school's on the way out and i should be able to finish it by next tuesday at the very latest.


	7. The Date that Cas Doesn't Know is a Date

After Chuck drives away, Dean starts to change into the jeans and button-down he left on the back seat before the game. He’s only meeting Cas at a pizza place before the movie, but he still wants to look nice.

Chuck did his part to take Dean’s mind off the game, but there’s still that ugly pit in his stomach that’s warning him that he won’t be able to spend a minute with Cas if it turns out it was a pity goal. As he pushes the last button through its hole, he promises himself that he won’t be a jackass, he won’t be a douche, he’ll just tell Cas that just because they’re friends and Dean’s unstable under alcohol doesn’t mean that Cas should just sit by and let him score. Maybe they can still hang out. Cas is still beautiful, still gorgeous these 23 days later; still fascinating enough for Dean to spend all his time with his phone glued to his hand. Maybe Dean can get over it.

Hell’s Bells comes on the stereo system as he pulls onto the road, and he spends the drive over jamming out to the wailing of AC/DC, simultaneously anticipating and dreading Cas.

Halfway there, his phone starts going off. He looks at it for a second, sees ‘Cas’, and quickly answers it.

“Yeah, hello?” He curses inwardly. He sounds like an overeager 15 year old.

There’s a pause, and then, “Hello, Dean.” His deep voice travels through Dean’s body, right through his dick.

“What’s - uh, what’s up?”

“I was just wondering if you were here yet.” Dean tries to ignore the implications of that - that Cas must have raced out of the arena to have arrived so early.

“I’ll be there in about two minutes, I think. If you wanna get a table, that’s fine.”

“Oh, no,” Cas responds quickly. “I’ll wait outside for you.”

“You sure, man? It’s getting chilly.”

“I’m fine, Dean. I’m used to the cold.”

“Okay. Great. Um,” Dean pauses for a second to lean out of the car for a parking ticket at the car deck. “I’m parking right now, so I promise I’ll be there quick. Sorry you had to wait.”

He skids the Impala into the first place he finds and speed walks out of there, on the phone with Cas the whole time.

“Shit, there’s a lot of people out tonight,” he pants as he dodges a group of excited women.

Cas chuckles. “Probably for the hockey game.”

“Right, right, forgot about the game.” He catches sight of Cas across the street, looking out of place in front of the family-owned pizza joint that’s always been Dean’s favorite. Dean’s still on the phone with Cas as he taps him on the shoulder, laughing a little as Cas jumps.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hi.”

They stare at each other for a long moment before they realise that the phones are by this point redundant.

“How are you d-”

“Wait, Cas.”

So much for not being a douche.

Cas raises an eyebrow, but graciously allows Dean to make a fool of himself.

“I gotta ask, okay? Don't get pissed, but...the game. The goal. Did you…did you do it on purpose?” His eyes search Castiel’s face for any sign of that hesitation he swears he saw during the game.

Cas gets pissed. “What do you mean, on purpose? Did I let your goal go in because you’re a-” A crowd is starting to gather, so before it gets too heated, he pulls Cas into an alleyway. Cas continues, uninterrupted. “Because you can’t handle fucking up?”

Dean feels like he’s sinking, worse than the knot that had been in his stomach because Cas isn’t repentant or offended, he’s downright furious. Dean fucked up.

“That’s not what - well. Yeah. I guess that is what I meant. Look, Cas, I’m sorry, I just-”

Cas seems to be growing in stature as Dean shrinks back against the wall.

“Did you ever think that maybe it was just a good shot and maybe _I_ fucked up?”

Dean winces. “Cas-”

“I didn’t expect you to be an asshole about winning. I think I’m going to go.” He starts to go thundering off, out of the alley, but Dean gets a fist in the back of his stupid trenchcoat and pulls him back.

“Cas, listen to me, okay?” He waits for a grudging nod before continuing. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Can we just - I dunno, forget about it? I've been looking forward to this for a while and I don't wanna fuck it up just cause I'm a dickhead. Just give me a chance, okay?"

Dean's not sure why he's fighting more for dinner with Cas than he did for his dad to stay, or why he's suddenly attempting to overcome what Sam calls his "emotional constipation", but he's trying, and Lord knows it's been ages since the last time that happened. And he guesses good things do happen, because Cas is still standing there (albeit arms crossed) when Dean releases the trenchcoat.

"No talking about hockey." Cas says. "Not at all."

"You're staying?" Dean's trying not to look too excited.

"Only if you don't mention hockey. I'm unhappy about the outcome of the game." Dean's relief is palpable as the nerdy worded Cas he's familiar with returns.

"No hockey. Deal."

They turn and walk around into the entrance of the pizza parlour. The second best thing about the place is how small it is - there's only one other couple in the dine-in section, and they seem wrapped up enough in each other that they won't bother to recognize the two hockey stars sitting 10 feet away.

"Please tell me you've had pizza before," Dean says as Cas narrows his eyes at the menu.

He gets a scornful look in return. "Of course. I just don't know what I want."

Dean sways minutely closer, brushing his shoulder against Cas'.  "The cheese is always good."

Cas wordlessly steps up to the counter. "I'd like a 10" margherita."

Dean is bludgeoned again with the reality of how thoroughly a few idiotic words can fuck everything up. Of course Cas didn’t let the puck in, of fucking course. It was ridiculous to even suggest it, he sees, because Cas is a consummate professional and the world doesn’t revolve around the chick flick that is Dean Winchester. He’s pissed at himself. Furious. He wasn’t lying to Cas - he’s been waiting for this day since the first time they met, and he can’t just let everything he’s put into this, all the hours texting and the super-masculine flailing when Cas said something cute and the fucking pining that Chuck called him out on a few times; he can’t let it go just because he’s an asshat.

“That one’s good, too,” he tries, lamely. When Cas just looks at him, unimpressed, he directs his eyes instead to the girl waiting for his order. “I’ll have a bacon ten incher. Thanks, sweetheart.”

When Dean pulls out his money to pay, Cas waves him aside. “I can pay for mine.”

“No way, dude. You’re in my city, it’s my treat.” Cas doesn’t look convinced. “Go grab us a booth or something, okay? I’ll be over in a sec.” Cas glares at him before turning away, letting Dean know that he can’t be bought by a ten inch pizza.

Dean forks over the money and grabs two beers before he heads over to the table Cas has picked, somehow the one table from which you can’t see the kitchen.

"I thought we agreed not to drink again,” Cas says, eyeing the beer from behind folded arms.

“Nah, we agreed not to get _wasted_ again. One or two’s fine.” Dean figures if he pretends everything’s normal and gets a little beer in Cas, his earlier transgression will be forgotten.

Cas begrudgingly takes the beer in his hands. He doesn’t open it, just toys with the label; which gives him an excuse not to meet Dean’s eyes.

Dean’s desperate. He doesn’t like the silence here, not in this uneasy place that they’re in, and he thinks that maybe if he talks enough, he might say something Cas likes enough to lean forward and stop exuding the _homicide_ vibe that’s rolling across the table in waves.

He looks out the window for a moment, searching for something, _anything_ that could support a conversation. He discards several sad-looking people, a hustling businessman, and a police officer before a dog walker struggles down the street with three dogs, each headed in a different direction. “Dog or cat person?” He blurts.

It’s so transparent, so transparent, but maybe that’s why Cas lifts his head, a tiny smile quirking up the corners of his lips.

“Cats. I’ve always wanted one, but…you know.”

“Your family?”

Cas nods. “My brothers could barely take care of me and Anna, let alone a cat.”

“My brother - I guess I should say his girlfriend, they got one when they moved out west. Real fluffy little thing. It pissed on my shirt the last time I went out to see them.”

“Sam has good taste in pets, then.”

Dean blows a raspberry, prompting a chuckle from Cas.

“I really am sorry, Cas.”

“I know.”

“Are we good?”

“I guess the night won’t be any fun if we aren’t.”

Dean holds Cas’ gaze for a long, grateful moment. He doesn’t need words to express the thanks in his eyes, and Cas has no use for them when he can just nod and get lost in Dean.

Dean breaks it after a minute or so, when he becomes aware that yes they have been staring at each other silently for a minute and yes that is really weird.

“I saw your interview last night,” he says, chancing another look up at Cas.

Cas grimaces. “Gabe made me do it.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Dean says with a smile. “How come you didn’t tell me about it?”

“I was hoping no one would see it.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I dunno, I was laughing.”

“It was supposed to be serious,” Cas says miserably. “It was supposed to be a good interview, but Gabe was being an assbutt the entire time.”

Dean covers his snort with a cough. “Somehow, assbutt in text doesn’t sound as good in person.”

“You know what I mean,” Cas says. “He asked the most inappropriate questions I’ve ever seen in an interview.”

“That perfect girl one was pretty good.” Testing the waters is hard to do subtly, Dean finds.

Cas looks up sharply. “You saw that?”

His willpower loses the battle to the smile stretching across his face. “Yeah. Bit specific, don’t you think?” He tries to hide his grin by quickly opening the beer bottle and bringing it to his lips, but Cas notices. And _blushes_.

Cas opens his mouth to say something, but someone calls out “42” and Dean has to tell Cas to hold that thought while he gets the pizza. He almost trips on the way back, but Cas’ back is to him and for all he knows, Dean is a smoothly coordinated athlete.

“I saw that,” Cas dashes his hopes. “In the window.”

“Fuck you,” Dean says playfully as he sets Cas’ margherita pizza down in front of him and takes his own Bacon-Bacon-Bacon masterpiece. The action seems almost domestic, which is, whoa, weird thought. Redirect. “What were you gonna say before?”

Cas just shakes his head. “It’s not of import.”

“Aw, come on, Cas, we’ll find you that smokin’ green-eyed engineer from down South someday.” He’s pushing now, just to see how far he can get before Cas notices what’s going on.

“I don’t-” Cas cuts himself off abruptly, pausing for a moment before restarting. “I didn’t mean that. It doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean’s too busy stuffing his mouth with pizza to say much else, but Cas doesn’t seem to appreciate the effort much, anyway. He doesn’t deign to respond, but instead takes a piece of pizza into his mouth.

"Good, ain't it?"

Cas' only response is to inhale it and start on another.

"D'you wanna try some bacon?" Dean asks a few minutes later, when he's down to his second to last slice.

Cas eyes it suspiciously. "Is it good?"

"It's _bacon_ , dude."

Surprisingly, this is is a convincing argument. Cas hands Dean a margherita slice in exchange for the bacon one, which he declares "pretty good, for solid fat," and Dean pretends to get offended.

"Are you questioning my taste?"

"No, I'm just suggesting you start taking care of yourself before someone else has to."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

Cas leans in a little over the table, presumably for the last of his pizza. "It's Schrödinger's cat."

A surprised laugh bursts out of Dean. Who the fuck brings up Schrödinger's cat over pizza? Yeah, Dean knows what it is. He's seen Big Bang Theory. "You're a nerdy little guy," he says in wonder.

"Is that a compliment?" Cas asks, genuinely bemused.

" _Hell_ , yeah. Nerds are sexy."

Cas stares at Dean and Dean stares at Cas for a long moment before Dean realises what he said, and man, does he backpedal.

"Not that you're sexy - I mean, you're not - I mean, you are, but that's not, um, it's not like I'm saying you're hot, but, I mean, you are, it's just - uh, I gotta take a piss."

Dean’s in the bathroom before he realises that he literally just up and sprinted away from Cas in the middle of dinner, because things got a little gay. There is no coming back from that.

He splashes cold water on his face, clutching the edges of the sink to balance himself.

"Fucking hell, Winchester," he mutters to himself. "Get it together."

It's so hard to be around Cas and not let it show; he knows part of it's curiosity, because he's always sort of wondered what it'd be like to kiss and touch another guy; but there has to be something else to it, too, because he's never teetered on the brink of actually _doing_ it before. There’ve been moments, sure, when friends have stood too close and his eyes have dipped to their lips, but it’s like Cas could be a thousand miles away and Dean’d still be thinking about getting his hands in that hair and feeling the rasp of stubble against his cheeks, and that’s _weird_.

He lingers in the bathroom for a few minutes, trying to work up the balls to return. In the end, he figures Cas is probably gone anyway, so he might be able to escape. Before he leaves he flushes the toilet, on the off chance Cas is still sitting out there and can hear it from their table.

When he opens the door, he sees Cas, still sitting there, typing furiously into his little flip phone.  

He hurries back to the table, drops into his seat with a huff. “Sorry ‘bout that. Just, uh, an urgent bowel movement.”

Cas raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Right. Yeah.” Dean feels like an idiot. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought. Quick mental replay rejects that explanation; it was pretty friggin’ bad. He’s not sure why Cas isn’t trying to leave again, but he figures this is probably his last shot and swears to himself that he’s not going to fuck this one up.

“I guess we should probably get going,” Dean hazards with a glance at his watch. They have about 10 minutes until the movie starts. The theatre’s only a 5 minute drive, for which they’ll be taking the Impala so Cas can finally worship his baby just like Dean does.

Cas nods and stands, typing one last line into his phone before stuffing it in the trenchcoat. “I like this place.”

Dean grabs his last slice of pizza, cold by now, but he’s not picky. He eats it on the way out, humming in agreement with Cas.

“It’s basically the only place I go to eat out here.”

Cas looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Do you mean you only eat at home?”

Dean shrugs. “I try. Chuck and I have a pretty nice kitchen, so when we’re home, I make the food and he does the dishes.”

“Interesting,” is all Cas says.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t know you liked to cook.” He pauses for a second, looking over at Dean. “You cook, you fix cars, it’s like you’re the perfect man.” Cas laughs almost self-consciously for a moment, and for some reason Dean feels like he’s trying to flirt.

In response, he does the Blue Steel. “You know me, Cas. Perfect ain't the word."

Cas' face turns concerned. "Is your face alright?"

"What do you - it's the _Blue Steel_ , man."

"The _what_?"

"You haven't seen - oh man, as soon as off-season comes around, you gotta see Zoolander. And everything else I bet you haven't seen yet. Star Wars? Rocky? For the love of god, Cas, _Back to the Future_?" To each and every one, Cas shakes his head. Dean clutches at his heart like he's been stabbed. "It's gonna happen," he declares as they reach the Impala.

Cas doesn't respond. He spends a minute just staring at Dean's baby, his only words "nice to finally meet you." Dean's both proud and ashamed - proud because Cas is checking her out the right way, a little worshipful, a little in love; ashamed because he must've talked so much about her that Cas somehow knew that she wasn't just a car, that she was history and family and memories. And a kickass model.

Cas admires the inside from shotgun as Dean puts the keys in the ignition. He revs her up a little more than necessary before pulling out, just to show Cas the feeling a good engine can put in your bones. And also to show off.

As they cruise down the streets of Chicago, the silence no longer uncomfortable, Dean realises that the painful breaks in their conversations of before were wholly products of his own making; he's just awkward as shit. They talk a little about cars - Dean's still not sure how he feels about Cas having a ‘98 Civic, but he figures he’ll be able to get over it if Cas has this much appreciation for Baby. The rest of the time, though, they’re quiet, and it’s fine. It works.

The Impala pulls into the small lot behind the movie theater and they jump out accordingly, heading to the ticket booth.

“2 for, uh, 21 Jump Street?” Dean slides the money through the slot and accepts the tickets in return.

“Popcorn?” He asks Cas as they walk inside.

Cas shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“So, popcorn,” Dean decides.

“I can pay for it-” Cas tries, but Dean shakes his head vigorously.

“It’s not like I can’t afford it, Cas.” He doesn’t mention that in his mind, this is a date, and if he pays for everything, then it’s even more of a date, and that’s worth it, even if Cas doesn’t know it’s, you know, a date.

“ _Please_ let me pay for something.”

“You wanna get some of those little ice cream ball things? I've always wanted to try 'em." The reason he never has is because he always smuggles his food in, stuffing the sleeves and pockets of his jacket with Skittles and pretzels and a water bottle and some Twizzlers, but he figures that Cas probably doesn't want warm candy that smells like Dean during their one-sided date.

When Cas asks for them, "the little ice cream ball things," because he's never heard of them before, the girl behind the counter giggles.

"You mean Dibs?" She asks, pointing at the freezer.

"Yes," says Cas uncertainly, feeling wholly out of his element.

"Which kind, Snickers or Crunch?"

Cas turns to Dean, who's already stuffing his face with popcorn.

"Go wif thnickerth," Dean advises, trying to swallow as fast as he can. "Anything Snickers has to be good."

Cas turns back to the girl, looking amused. “Snickers it is, then.”

Okay, so the Dibs are kind of stupidly expensive, but they each try one, right there in the lobby, and Dean decides they’re almost worth it.

“There are only 14 in this box,” Cas is amazed after he counts them. “How are there only 14?”

Dean shakes his head. “They know you’re gonna buy whatever they have, so they get half a box of good stuff for shitty prices and it sells anyway.”

“So why did we just further their misconception that this is okay?”

Dean frowns. “I don’t really...shit, I knew I should’ve smuggled.”

“What?”

Dean starts pulling him along towards the theater with 21 JUMP STREET lit up overhead. “I usually just smuggle things in so I don’t have to pay for anything.”

“Oh.” Cas pauses for a moment as they head into the theater. “Maybe next time, then.”

Dean runs into a trashcan. It hurts like hell, actually, and he spills about half their popcorn all over the floor, but all he can think about is _next time_ because that makes it sound like there’s going to be a next time; like next time is a definite thing that’s always been on the table; like it’s obvious.

“Are you okay?” Cas looks concerned, probably because Dean’s just standing by the trashcan with a stupid grin on his face.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I’m fine. I’m good. I’m - uh, where do you wanna sit?”

The theater’s dimly lit, but he can tell there’s only a few other people in it. Crowds always die down the farther you get from the premiere, and he’s pretty sure it’s been about 3 weeks.

“Wherever we can see it best, I suppose.”

“Let’s go up front, then.”

They end up in the middle about seven rows back from the screen - far enough away that neither of them'll have a crick in their neck, close enough that they get the whole experience.

“I heard this movie was good,” Cas says as the previews start up.

“Yeah, Charlie said it was hilarious.”

Dean’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing here. As far as he can see it, Cas has no idea that this whole night has morphed into a date night for Dean - and Dean doesn’t _do_ date nights. He does sex in beige hotel rooms and he throws away the numbers and he wonders what the fuck’s wrong with him, that all he can do is shove his dick at random girls and never get to know them, never do things the right way and take them out for dinner or a movie, and it’s like this with Cas is some twisted fantasy, except it’s not fake. It’s real, or as real as it could get without Cas knowing what Dean’s torn up over.

Dean shifts in his seat as a preview comes on for one of those cookie-cutter movies where the chick falls for her male best friend. It looks genuinely terrible. Who the _fuck_ goes to see movies like that? Who the _fuck_ wants to see that kind of agony? He decides to google the end when it comes out, just to see if there’s any risk-free way of letting Cas know that sometimes (okay, all the time, every time) he wakes up humping his bed, dreaming that it’s Cas.

It’s fucking ridiculous, is what it is. He’s being ridiculous.

“That looked interesting,” Cas comments as one of those Animal Planet docudramas fades from the screen.

“You wanna see that one next time?” It’s not really Dean’s glass of whiskey, but he’ll sit through two hours of polar bears trekking across icy tundra if that’s what Cas wants.

Cas laughs. “I’m not sure you’d enjoy that, Dean.”

“I dunno, that baby one looked kinda like you. I could get invested in its survival.”

“Did you just say I resemble a baby polar bear?”

“Like, in a good way. You’re too cute to be scary.”

Did he really only have one beer?

He’s already ducked out once tonight because his words are unmanageable, so it’s not like he’s about to vault Cas and sprint to the bathroom. No, he has to stay and face the awkward.

Cas just turns an interesting shade of red and Dean has to turn back towards the screen before his cheeks follow suit.

“Is it okay if I put up this armrest? To make room for the popcorn?” Cas already has it halfway up by the time Dean nods. He knows, scientifically, that there’s probably more distance between them now with the stupid bag of popcorn, but it feels like a hell of a lot less and Dean approves.

The movie starts shortly after, and Charlie did not exaggerate. Dean can’t stop laughing at “ _you have the right to suck my dick, motherfucker_ ,” (which says a lot about his taste in humor) and he finds a lot more respect for Channing Tatum in a role like this. There’s even some laughter coming out of Cas, which Dean counts as a victory.

It’s as the geeky nerd kid is reciting his H2O poem that Dean reaches into the popcorn bag, not even looking. He doesn’t notice that Cas’ hand is already in there, that there’s only about an inch of popcorn left, that it’s physically impossible for them to not touch. When his hand brushes against the warm skin of Cas’, he almost jumps out of his skin. His eyes are the only things that move, straining at the edge of his vision to see that Cas is frozen, too. Their fingers are still touching, but just barely.

It’s like Dean’s hand moves of its own accord, because he sure as hell doesn’t remember telling his pinkie to wrap around Cas’, but now here they are, sitting in a popcorn bag pinkie promise. It’s a little weird. Scratch that - it's _really_ weird, but Dean's not about to move. He feels like he's a teenager on his first date again, like just holding Cas' little finger is almost enough.

Before Dean can fully process what's happening, Cas fumbles his hand around Dean and into a genuine finger-linking grip and _Dean and Cas are holding hands._

It's sweet and innocent and strange and he's really, really fine with that.

By the time Jonah Hill's trying to fuck a relay baton, the popcorn bag's somewhere by their feet, forgotten (Dean thinks Cas might've edged it off with his other hand, but he's not about to say anything). The logical next step would be to slide closer, press their shoulders and arms and thighs together, press the lines of their body against each other, and that's what they do. Dean, on a whim, hooks his foot around Cas' ankle and Cas actually _sighs_ , low and content and Dean's a little bit thrilled.

Over the course of the movie, Cas folds into Dean, like when he'd been majorly hungover the last time, except he's not drunk or incapacitated, just cuddly. Eventually Cas' body weight starts cutting off circulation in Dean's arm and he doesn't really want to see how long he can go without blood to his hand. He slips his fingers out of Cas', holding his breath as Cas stiffens, but then his other hand is there instead and Cas sinks back down. Now Dean can loop his floppy arm around Cas' shoulders and pull him in a little closer, a little tighter, until Cas rests his head in the curve of Dean's neck.

Dean doesn't want to move.

It's perfect. The moment is perfect.

The movie isn't romantic or whatever you're supposed to take a date to, but it's apparently really funny to Cas, who keeps making rumbling noises against Dean's throat.

At least, he thought it was laughter. Until he peers down and finds Cas' eyes shut, his mouth barely open but still emitting deep snores that Dean's praying no one else can hear.

He's frozen like that for the rest of the movie, his arm positioned so Cas has a good pillow. He tries not to laugh too hard for fear of waking Cas up, who apparently does _not_ sleep enough at night, but there are some genuinely classic scenes that he can't hold in the full-body chuckles.

When the coach gets his dick shot off, Dean shakes, half because he’s picturing how bad that’d hurt and half because he’s laughing too damn hard.

He’s still chuckling as he notices that his neck is getting a little... _wet_.

Cas is sleep mackin’ on him.

Well, he’s got his mouth pressed up against the base of Dean’s neck and he’s only really breathing, but it sort of feels like sleep macking.

Dean feels his dick start to get interested, because there’s this little spot on his throat, directly above Cas’ mouth, that gets him going like a shot of espresso to the balls. He thanks God that Cas isn’t touching it, because it’s _bad_ , if bad is really really friggin’ good; it’s also bad if bad is booking a one-way ticket to Bonertown.

Cas shifts upwards, slightly, the breath from his nose stirring the hairs on Dean’s neck and it's suddenly looking like Dean’s been upgraded to Bonertown Express.

“Hnnnnng.” The noise escapes Dean’s throat without a warning. It's quiet enough that no one in the theater could have heard it, but this is _bad_ (if bad is _bad_ ). Shifting away is not an option, because no matter how subtly he tries to reposition, Cas is still just _there_. It’s not that it’s not nice, it’s just that he wants more, _stat,_ and he’s not even sure if this counts as the start to that sort of thing. Maybe Cas is lonely and tired and Dean just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

The movie ends shortly after. Dean watches the credits flash by, unwilling to wake Cas up in case he’s different when he comes to; in case this was a mistake. Dean’s way out of his element in this sort-of-not-date, but at least he’s doing alright as a pillow, because Cas is clinging to him like he’s the last  parachute on a plummeting airplane.

“Dude, you’re gonna have to move.” Dean’s eyes refocus on the sudden apparition of a kid standing in front of them. “We have another show in 15.”

Dean’s mouth starts working again as he realises that he and Cas are not, in fact, invisible; that people can see them. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, dude.”

“Is he okay?” The kid asks, sweeping crushed popcorn into his dustpan on a stick. “He looks a little dead.”

“He’s not…” Wait, is he? Dean shakes Cas a little bit, unknotting their hands to push Cas back up straight. “Cas, you’re not dead, right?”

Castiel just groans in response.

“Nah, he’s fine.”

Dean hoists Cas up from the seat and pulls him out of the theatre, nodding to the surprisingly nonchalant kid on the way out.

Waiting for Cas to wake up is not easy. Sure, Dean gets him upright and into the Impala, but his eyes are slits and Dean’s practically carrying him.

It was a long game, Dean realises. He figures he should probably be upset that Cas passed out on him during their maybe-date (because it’s not looking like a full-on not-date anymore), but he just looks so adorable conked out on the backseat of Dean’s car.

Too bad he can’t stare at him like a pervert all night. The theatre’s closing soon and Dean wants to get Cas back to his hotel room before someone starts looking for him. He’d mentioned something about Zach, Coach of the Dicks, setting a curfew and checking rooms, an amount of control freak that makes Dean uncomfortable on Cas’ behalf.

He just needs to know where the Comets staying.

“Cas?” He tries, but it barely comes out because some strange motherly instinct in Dean is telling him to let Cas sleep. Instead, he gropes his way into the pocket of Cas’ trenchcoat, praising God when he’s able to surgically remove the key card for Cas’ hotel and room. There’s even a little sticky note on it with 328 written in what Dean imagines must be Cas’ handwriting.

Cas doesn’t make a sound as Dean drives to the nearest Marriott. He leaves the radio off, but he has a feeling Cas is so far gone that he wouldn’t respond even to Black Sabbath.

Every so often, Dean checks in the rearview to make sure Cas is still, you know, breathing. As they pass under a streetlight, his face is thrown into sharp relief against the leather of the seat.

Dean can’t recall ever having found a grown man cute, or whatever that weird guy at the last hotel had said - adorable - but when he looks at Cas, his face mashed into the seat and his hair like one of those Troll dolls, that’s the only word that comes to mind. Cute

Dean’s cheeks are burning as he pulls into the hotel lot. He makes himself focus instead on the slow puddle of drool spreading from Cas’ mouth, which is decidedly uncute ( _what the fuck, man, it’s vintage_ ).

“Cas. Hey, buddy, we’re here.” He gives Cas’ cheek a gentle slap and almost pisses himself when there’s suddenly a hand gripping his wrist. Cas squints up at him.

“I was sleeping,” he grumbles, accusingly.

“Yeah, I noticed.” Dean watches Cas unstick his face from the seat, wiping the spit puddle up with the sleeve of his coat. “We’re at your hotel.”

Cas looks out the window, just now seeing the building. “Okay.”

Dean waits for more, but Cas just opens the door and climbs out.

He hadn’t been expecting much, but he thought a goodbye-hope-we-never-meet-again wouldn’t be too much to ask for.

“Are you coming?” Cas sticks his head back in, startling a jump out of Dean. “I thought Chuck was occupying your apartment for the evening.”

“Oh - uh, um...I was just gonna drive. Around.” He flaps his hand around lamely. Very definitely his worst response to getting invited back to someone’s place. Possibly _the_ worst. In the history of ever.

Cas sighs heavily. “I’m tired and I want you to come up with me, Dean.”

“I can do that,” Dean manages. He practically leaps out of Baby, patting her once on the trunk as he follows Cas into the hotel.

“Are you sure you want me here?” Dean asks quietly once they’re in the elevator. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.

“I can hang out with whomever I’d like,” Cas says, his chin lifting defiantly. “It’ll be fine, Dean.”

What Dean really wants to know is what they’re going to do in Cas’ room. He figures it’ll start with Cas passing out on the bed and end with Dean sneaking out at 2 in the morning. Sure, holding hands in a dark movie theatre was great, but Dean’s not sure Cas is going to want to go any farther. Hell, he’s not sure _he_ wants to go any farther. He’s not gay, after all.

He’s not gay, he decides, but he’d totally tap that. Not in a homosexual way; in, like, a “gender irrelevance” way. That sounds nice. It could be a good public stance.

“It’s down this way,” Cas says once the elevator doors ding open. It’s sort of unnecessary, but he grabs Dean’s forearm and pulls him along down the hall anyway. It ends up that his hand slides down Dean’s jacket and before it can fall away, it clutches Dean's hand, just for a second. Dean's too late to react, too late to catch it. The only thing he can do is open and close his mouth a few times as he's waiting for Cas to open the door. Apparently the popcorn bag incident was _not_ a one time thing. Dean's suddenly a lot more eager to get into that hotel room.

"It's not much," Cas says as they step in, "but it's like a second home to me."

Dean stares at him for a good three seconds before he realises that Cas is kidding. The room's not a shit hole, which is always good (Dean's stayed in some pretty skeevy places himself), but it's definitely not a Dean and Chuck penthouse. There's one bed - singularly, solitarily, significantly one - directly in line with a tv that's probably about 6 years old, and of course, the weirdly shaped bathroom. Dean feels kind of shitty about the fact that he really does have some stellar digs and Cas is stuck in this beige monstrosity instead. He guesses Chuck and Becky are probably having a good time, but, uh, _ew_.

"Zachariah is not good at booking quality hotels," Cas fills in Dean's silence. "I've gotten used to scratchy blankets and car horns in the night." Almost as if it were punctuating his point, a car alarm starts wailing, what sounds like a few streets over.

"Cas-" Dean starts, just as Cas is starting to say something. "Oh, sorry, you go first." He doesn't even know what he'd been about to say - probably something embarrassing like "D'you wanna make out?"

Cas looks at him, slightly suspicious, but he says, "I was just wondering if you wanted some water or anything."

"Sure, if you got any sitting around." It's not that he's thirsty,  he just wants something to do with his hands.

"You can sit down," Cas says, eyeing Dean as he hands him a water bottle from atop the mini fridge. He probably looks really nervous, shifting his weight back and forth and squeezing the water bottle at the neck. "I need to use the bathroom." He brushes past Dean and into the bathroom.

As soon as he's gone, Dean collapses onto the bed. This is not going as well as he'd hoped. Granted,  he hadn't expected Cas to be a little into him too, but so far, Dean's getting a solid F-. He needs to step it up a little - Cas won't even want to be his _friend_ after this kind of night, and if that's the case, then Dean can kiss the fantasies goodbye.

He's not sure what friends do to be good friends. Hell, he's not even sure that by normal standards, he has any good friends. He doesn't know Chuck's favorite color, or what's on Benny's bucket list, or how many times Kevin knots his shoes (probably like four, the cautious bastard).

Since Dean doesn't know how to be a good friend, he figures he'll just continue to be a good pillow. It's easy and warm and Cas seems to appreciate it. He can settle.

By the time Cas comes back out, Dean's reclining on the bed, arm tucked behind his head and the remote in his other hand as he watches Chopped.

"I see you've made yourself comfortable," Cas' voice makes Dean look up abruptly. Apparently Cas took some clothes in with him, because now he's down to sweats and a t-shirt. Dean feels minorly overdressed.

"What are you watching?" Cas asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Dean stretches his arm out along the top of the pillows, hoping the implied "come here" isn't too obvious. Cas doesn't notice, anyway.

"I dunno, it's like the cooking version of American Idol."

Instead of actually turning his head to look at Dean like a normal human being would, Cas flops back onto the bed, his legs still dangling off, and watches Dean upside-down.

"American Idol?"

Dean blushes. "Only when there's nothing else on. You can talk, Mr. Bride-day Friday."

A smile spreads across Cas' face. "We'll just have to keep our tv habits a secret, then."

"Can you imagine the media coverage it'd get? They'd think we were gay or something."

There it is. The Freudian slip of a lifetime. Dean regrets it as soon as it slips out.

Cas doesn't say anything, doesn't move, barely breathes. His eyes are closed and for one long, hopeful moment, Dean thinks he's asleep.

He's not.

His blue eyes open eventually, rolling backwards to seek Dean out. Dean's already staring at the tip of Cas' nose, so he doesn't have to travel far to see the conflict swimming inside of Cas.

"I've never dated anyone," Cas says in a strange tone of voice. "Ever."

"You've never - wait, does that mean you're a virgin?" Cas nods slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. " _Damn_ ," Dean says softly. But Cas is _hot_.  Gabe was right - he could fuck a supermodel a night based purely off his career, not to mention his looks.

"It's not that I don't want to." Cas is talking sort of like a robot now, like he forgot Dean's still in the room. "I just don't want to have sex with someone I've just met, and this job makes it hard to really _know_ people."

"What're you-" _telling me this for_ , but Dean cuts himself off.

Cas looks back at him again. "I just wanted you to know."

Dean feels like 'I just wanted you to know' is pretty strictly reserved for minor domestic emergencies, like "I just wanted you to know that the milk might break out of the fridge and rob a bank if we don't get rid of it soon," or "I just wanted you to know that I'm getting a dog," or even "I just wanted you to know that I'll be out of the country for three weeks next August"; basically, anticlimactic and Catholic - approved. Not "I just wanted you to know that I've never done any fucking of any kind," because that's both a little sad and little hot and Dean doesn't like these kind of things sprung upon him. He swallows.

"I've never really been in a relationship, either. The longest was a few months during high school, and I fucked that up real bad." Her name was Lisa, and it'd ended when she let him follow his career while she went her own way. She probably doesn't even remember him anymore. "I guess I don't have the same deal you do, though. When I gotta do it, I do it, and I never see 'em again." As he realises how disgusting and hollow that sounds, he tries to rephrase. "I mean, it's not that I want people to think I'm a manwhore,  it's just that it's easier that way, cause, uh, like you said, you don't stay in one place for too long.

"That's a little fucked up, isn't it," he muses after a few seconds. "Cas, I think we're both a little fucked up."

Cas stretches his arms up to the pillow under Dean's arm. He smiles minutely. "Maybe a little bit."

"Guess we're fucked up together, then," Dean says, as nonchalantly as he can. He pats the pillow again, this time unconcerned about subtlety. "But if you come here, you'll be fucked up and comfortable."

Cas complies and rolls over, a softness in his smile when he looks at Dean from this close and _nut up, Winchester, no chick flicks_. Dean blinks away from the stare they'd been holding and back at the tv, idly noticing that he's missed a course. His arm loosely folds over Cas' shoulder, tucking the goalie into his side as Dean continues to pretend nothing's happening here between them.

Dean's right hand is laid out on across his left thigh, an awkward position made a million times more worth it when Cas worms his own hand onto it. Dean really likes this position, he realises. It's soft and it's comfortable and - oh _shit_ , it's _cuddling_. Dean Winchester does not cuddle. But Dean Winchester also isn't gay, and he doesn't make good friends and keep them,  and he definitely doesn't watch cooking shows and talent searches in his spare time; maybe it's time to stop being Dean Winchester and start just being _Dean_.

Cas is asleep before the next episode of Chopped begins. It's not late, but with the warmth of Cas down his side and the sound of pots clattering and water boiling over in the background, Dean follows not long after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear god, i'm so sorry this took so long to get up. it's a lot longer than i'd expected and i wanted to get the porny bits in this one but i felt really bad about taking so long, so sorry for leaving you guys right there.  
> right well as usual hope you guys enjoy (: next chapter will be up before i go on vacation next monday. let me know if anything's off.


	8. Dean really hates Paula Deen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> porn. really awful porn.

Dean wakes up from a particularly nice dream slowly.

In his unconscious, he's humping Cas.

In his conscious, he's ... _humping Cas_.

He freezes before his hips can complete another circle into Cas' hip and tries, desperately, to sort himself out.

He's still wearing jeans,  which isn’t exactly ideal considering his dampened boxers and hardening dick. Sweat is trickling down the back of his neck, probably because his subconscious was trying to apply naked logic to fully - clothed situations.

Fuck, is he hard.

He's just been panting like a dog, so thank god the tv's still on to cover it, even though it's Paula Deen and he feels a little like vomiting when he realises creepy butter lady saw it all. His raging erection starts to subside at that thought.

They must have slid down the bed through the night (or maybe it was just the horn - demon inside Dean that did it), so now they're lying level with one another, Dean with his leg thrown over Cas' waist and his dick begging to be touched. It's just that it felt so fucking good, and he hasn't had sex in like a month and a half, which is absolutely Cas' fault.

He knows it's at least a little wrong, but maybe if he can just finish this one out real quick,  before Cas wakes up, it'll get rid of all the weird tension hanging in the air between them and Dean'll stop with the weird urges (ie sausages, damn it).

He only rolls his hips twice before he has to stop because “at least a little wrong” was definitely not the phrase for it. He can’t bring himself to use Cas’ prone body as, like, a sex doll.

There’s no way he’s gonna be able to let his problem be, though. He can already feel the blue balls coming on. Moving slowly, he begins to withdraw his leg from Cas’. Even though Cas apparently sleeps heavy as fuck, he’d also just been humped for who knows how long, so. He’s careful.

“Dean.”

Dean’s first instinct is to go limp, pretend he’s asleep.

“Dean, I know you’re awake.”

He doesn’t move because _shit shit shit shit shit_.

“ _Dean_.”

Nope.

He will deny this happened for as long as humanly possible.

Cas rolls on top of him and it’s no longer humanly possible.

“Oof! What the fuck, man?” He knows he’s blushing bright red. There’s no way Cas can’t feel his massive hardon.

“I was awake,” Cas says in a gravelly voice. He finishes the sentence with an infinitesimal roll of his hips and _oh._

“I thought you said you don’t fuck strangers,” Dean says, miraculously able to keep his voice even.

Cas frowns. “You’re not a stranger, Dean.”

And suddenly Dean understands what “I just wanted you to know” means, and he also understands that just because Cas doesn’t know all of him yet doesn’t mean they’re strangers; and most importantly, Dean understands that if he doesn’t get his lips on Cas soon, he’s going to fucking implode.

He reaches up and twists his fingers into the sex hair he's been kinking out over forever and _god_ , is it fluffy.

Cas' head dips down until Dean's going cross-eyed trying to keep him in focus, and then it makes more sense to close his eyes and just _feel._

Cas kisses like he plays hockey - smooth and quick and with his entire body. For the longest moment, Dean can't remember how he's supposed to respond - something with a tongue? - and Cas slows as he presumably realises he might as well be kissing a statue.

He pulls away, eyes opening to look at Dean. All it takes is the light flickering off of the confusion in Cas’ eyes to reanimate Dean, to remind him that Cas doesn’t know what he’s doing and this is supposed to be Dean’s area of expertise.

He tugs Cas back down into him, his hands exploring the lithe body above him as their lips meet again.

Cas’ mouth is soft against Dean’s, and with his eyes closed like this, he can almost pretend he’s kissing a girl. There’s the smell, though, the Old Spice - musk mixture that is like whiskey to Dean’s nose; and there’s the short stubble that scrapes against his cheeks and upper lip every time he moves; but it’s kind of nice, really, and it’s not like Dean’s fully thinking about any of that right now.

He’s thinking about the way Cas sighs when he licks the roof of his mouth, or the gasp that comes out of his own mouth when Cas grinds his entire body down. He’s thinking about the soft whine that rips out of Cas’ throat when Dean pulls on his hair. He’s thinking about how fucking awesome everything feels.

After Cas explores Dean’s mouth, when Dean can taste him in every corner of his mind and it’s still not enough, Dean pushes at Cas until he gets the idea and rolls over onto his back. Dean follows immediately, pushing Cas’ shirt up until it bunches under his armpits. His body is glorious, all lines and muscle, so clearly masculine that there is no more pretending.

Dean wants to worship him.

He works his way down Cas’ neck, planting kisses on his collarbone and across his chest, and then he starts on Cas’ left nipple, kissing and sucking until Cas is practically howling beneath him; and then, he moves on to the right one.

He stops for a moment when Cas starts saying “Dean”, over and over again, and the smile he presses to Cas’ skin is just as important as all the kisses.

“Dean,” Cas manages eventually, “Now seems like an appropriate time to take our pants off.”

It takes Dean a few seconds to stop laughing, but then it sinks in that Cas wants his pants off and who is Dean to deny him that?

If he was doing his pornstar recital, he’d pull Cas’ sweatpants down with his teeth, but his hands are nervous enough as is.

Cas is wearing dark blue briefs that Dean barely notices because _hello, dick._

It’s not that he’s never seen another one before, it’s just that...well, team showers and a gay porno that one time didn’t really prepare him for...this.

He rocks back on his heels, staring at the outline of Cas’ dick straining the fabric.

Cas props himself up on his elbows, his shirt since discarded. “Is something wrong?”

Dean looks at him, hoping the fear isn’t visible in his eyes.

“I’ve just...um, never really done this before,” he says, and as it’s coming out, he’s aware that it’s the most ridiculous line ever.

Cas shakes his head. “The problem is that you’re wearing too much clothing. Come here.” Cas straightens himself until he’s sitting upright.

Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dean obeys, crawling up Cas’ body with a knee on either side until he’s sitting in Cas’ lap with a pretty goddamn hard cock pushing up against his ass. All he can think is that Cas sure is bossy for a virgin.

Cas puts his hands on Dean’s chest. “Are you okay with this?” He asks.

Dean’s nodding before he can even think to give an emphatic yes or explain his mind and it’s probably a good thing, too, because Cas knows what he’s doing.

He distracts Dean with a kiss while his hands start unbuttoning Dean’s shirt - he can feel the fumbling of fingers and it feels damn good, knowing that Cas is nervous about this too.

Finally, the shirt is off. At first, Cas just looks. He stares at Dean’s chest and stomach and he doesn’t say a word.

Dean’s starting to get uncomfortable by the time Cas reaches out and touches, traces the lines of his muscles, lays his hands on Dean’s ribs and settles his palms into the bones of his hips.

“You’re beautiful,” Cas finally says.

“So are you,” Dean means to say, but what comes out instead is “I still have my pants on.”

“I’m sure your penis is beautiful, too,” Cas says drily, going to work on Dean’s belt.

Dean flushes. “That’s not what I meant.” But Cas can’t hide his grin, and when Dean sees, he chuckles in relief. “You suck, dude.”

“Do you want me to?” Cas looks up through his eyelashes at Dean and holy _fuck_ , those pants are way too fucking tight.

“I didn’t think you knew how to do that,” Dean says with a little less breath than usual. His hands join Cas’ in attempting to unlock the unexpected chastity belt that is his jeans.

When the zipper is finally down, Dean rolls off of Cas to kick his legs free. Before the jeans are even on the floor, Cas is hovering over him, his breath fanning warmth across Dean’s face.

“I have to start somewhere, Dean,” and by the time Dean understands, Cas has his boxers halfway down his legs and a tongue on his dick and that’s basically the last bit of advanced thinking Dean’s able to do for the night.

Cas licks Dean’s cock twice before apparently deciding that the taste is palatable and taking most of it in his mouth.

Dean’s back arches as the wet heat encircles him. He tries not to thrust up too much, but his hips can’t stop bouncing a little and Cas is taking it like a pro.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean moans when Cas’ hand starts pumping in tandem with the bobbing of his head. “Fuck, Cas, _yes_.”

Dean isn’t sure what the hell his mouth his doing. He’s not normally vocal during sex, but apparently put Cas’ mouth on him and he’s all breathy sighs and “yes, Cas, _yes_.” And then Cas does this incredible thing with his tongue and Dean tries to warn him, but all he gets out is “Cas, shit,” and then he’s coming down Cas’ throat, and when Cas chokes and pulls off, all over his face, too.

Dean shouts as he comes, sees stars behind his closed eyelids. He feels like he lies there for an eternity, soaring through happy orgasm land, but when he finally opens his eyes, Cas is still frozen in place. The expression he’s wearing beneath all the come is a pretty priceless mixture of shock and arousal.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” Dean says, but he’s too fucked out to care about the chuckle that slips out at the end.

“It’s - um…” Cas trails off, wordlessly. Dean takes pity on him and makes his way to his feet, stumbling into the bathroom and returning with a wet washcloth. He carefully wipes Cas’ face clean, then tosses the washcloth somewhere on the floor, ready to resume activity.

This time, when Dean touches Cas’ underwear, it comes off. Cas is still ridiculously hard, but Dean’s too spent to do much more than wrap his hand around Cas and stroke a few times. It’s a different angle than he’s used to, but Dean’s done enough jacking off to know the difference between what feels good and what feels _good_. Cas is falling on top of him in no time, broken moans escaping from his throat as Dean’s hand goes faster and faster. He watches as Cas’ face opens up, the pleasure practically glowing out of his skin. He looks like an angel in this moment, more than anything. He looks beautiful.

“ _Dean_ ,” he exhales as he comes, painting Dean’s chest white.

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have thrown that washcloth across the room.

They stay like that for a while, Cas splayed across Dean, his breath tickling Dean’s ear, but at some point the mess gets uncomfortable. Dean pushes Cas off to clean the drying come up with whatever article of clothing was closest to the bed (possibly Dean’s shirt, but he’s far past caring at this point).

“That was enjoyable,” Cas says, his eyes fixed on Dean.

Dean grins. “Enjoyable?”

“Amazing.”

“That’s better.”

They’re just lying there, smiling at each other like fools. The fondness in Cas’ eyes is almost enough to scare Dean off, but he swallows his daddy problems and instead of moving away, he moves closer.

“If you don’t tell anyone, we can, uh, do a thing.”

He hasn’t felt comfortable doing this with anyone, ever, but Cas isn’t the type to judge.

“What kind of thing?” Cas asks.

“Just shut up and get over here,” Dean says gruffly. Cas raises an eyebrow but obliges. He doesn’t react when Dean tucks himself into Cas’ side, wrapping an arm around Cas’ chest and winding a leg between Cas’. The scant half-inch of space between their faces, Cas crosses with a soft kiss; it feels different now that it’s not in the heat of the moment, now that it’s sweet and close and a sort of promise.

Dean’s eyes flutter closed and he falls asleep like that, with Cas around him, with their breaths mixing in the space between each other. With Paula Deen in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently the only thing i'm worse at than writing smut is keeping a deadline. i'm really sorry this took me like two weeks after i promised it, so, uh, this is my apology letter. porrrrrn. on the plus side i got to see cute european boys so (:  
> as always, hope you guys like it & let me know if anything's off. danke, merci, gracias, thank you  
> edit: currently slaving away over chapter 9. I'm thinking maybe two or three more chapters and then this strange strange story will be all wrapped up


	9. Fun Shower Times

It’s the sound of aggressive knocking that jolts Dean awake from the deepest sleep he’s had in months.

“What the fuck is that,” he mumbles into Cas’ chest. Cas snores on.

Dean closes his eyes. He figures that Cas has the right idea.

_BANG, BANG, BANG._

“Fucking shit, Cas,” Dean whines, but Cas’ eyelashes barely flutter.

Dean takes the path of least resistance, sucking a long kiss on Cas’ neck. He’s rewarded almost instantly with a groan.

“Hey, trenchcoat ninja, there’s someone at the door.”

Cas’ left eye opens, just a slit.

“It’s not like I can get it,” Dean says when the eye glares.

With a grumble that sounds an awful lot like “ _fuck you_ ”, Cas flops off the bed, pulls on his sweatpants, and staggers around the corner to the door.

Dean hears it open, the soft thud that’s probably Cas’ body leaning against the doorframe.

“Cassie, not returning my calls, I see.”

“I’m not in the mood, Balthazar. What do you want?”

“The boys and I are headed out for breakfast. I thought perhaps you ought to stop sulking alone and come with. We can bitch about that Winchester bastard, if it’ll make you feel any better.”

If Dean wasn’t pretending not to be there, he’d be streaking out of bed and punching that dick in the face. As it is, he locates his boxers on the ground and pulls them on, just in case he needs to make a quick getaway.

“He’s not a - I’m not - I’m _fine_ , Balthazar.”

Dean smiles at the way Cas’ voice raises slightly.

“You’re _fine_? There’s no way you’re - oh my _god_. You’ve got a girl back there.”

“No, no, there’s no girl.”

“You sure?”

Dean panics and dives under the covers, curling into a ball and hoping Balthazar doesn’t make it all the way to the bed.

“What, is she naked?”

“It’s not a girl, Balth. Thank you for thinking of me, really, but go to breakfast. Please.”

“Oh my, my. You’ve got yourself a boytoy, have you? Damn, Cassie, I’m proud of you. Glad to see you happy again. That post-orgasmic glow really suits you.”

The door slams.

Dean pokes his head out as he hears footsteps approach. “He gone?”

“What would you have done if he wasn’t?” Cas asks drily, dropping back onto the bed.

“Jumped out the window, probably,” Dean replies, stretching out.

“That seems like overkill.”

“Well, you’re my hero, so I figured you’d be able to hold out against a disgruntled dick.”

“Your trust is overwhelming.” Cas rolls until his nose is pressed into Dean’s cheek.

“Your face is overwhelming,” Dean mumbles, before he realises that it’s not exactly the effect that he was going for; but Cas is laughing into him and he’s not going to regret it like this.

He turns into Cas, catching his lips in a kiss that tastes a little like shit and feels a lot like the grace of God shining down upon them. Cas’ hands find their way up to Dean’s face, and even after they break apart, he’s still stroking Dean’s cheekbones. Dean pushes into his touch like a cat.

“I should probably go soon,” he drawls, making no attempt to move. Cas’ fingers are magic, spreading tingles over his skin and leaving him feeling too relaxed to do much more than sigh.

“It’s barely 8,” Cas says. “Unless you have somewhere to be?” His hands slow.

Dean shakes his head violently at the implication. Dean hears Cas snort and the circles start up once more.

“‘S just practice, at 10. ‘Cause Bobby knows we’re a buncha lazy fucks who can’t be bothered before 9.”

Cas groans. “That sounds amazing. Zach has us practicing at 7:00 when we’re at home.”

“You should - mmm - you should ditch those losers and come to our team,” Dean says. He means it as a joke but as he’s saying it, he realises that if Cas were to, say, terminate his contract with the Comets, Dean wouldn’t have to face him down ever again, except, of course, for practice. And then Dean wouldn’t have to deal with the constant question of how much responsibility for every goal could be attributed to himself.

Cas smiles, bringing Dean back down to earth.

“You’re moving a little fast there, aren’t you?”

“Hey man, that’s you. I never put out on the first date.” The look Cas levels at him has him cackling. “So we have a few hours, then?”

Cas nods slowly.

Considering it took them all of 15 minutes to cream themselves last night, Dean’s going to go ahead and say that it’s extremely possible to stage a repeat performance. And by repeat, he means totally different. And by totally different, he means shower sex. Hey, it’s complicated, but who knows when the next time is that they’ll see each other?

If Dean really stopped and analysed what he was doing, he wouldn’t still be lying next to Cas, ruffling the sex hair and giggling when Cas mashes his head into Dean’s stomach, kissing around his belly button like Dean’s a little kid. It’s too casual, too friendly, too much fun to be thrown in the tall deck of his previous conquests. He just doesn’t usually (RE: ever) hang around for the morning after. It’s just sex, in and out and never again, but when he woke up next to Cas, there was no part of him that wanted to ditch. He wanted to stay and keep using Cas as a pillow, and that would have scared him. That’s why it’s a good thing Dean never ends up giving it much thought.

“Hey,” he says after a moment. Cas looks up at him. “I think I should probably take a shower.”

Cas separates from him, waving a hand towards the bathroom. “Go ahead.”

Dean stares at him, but Cas has his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“You could probably use a shower, too,” Dean tries.

Cas frowns. “You’re probably right,” but he doesn’t move.

Dean tries not to facepalm. For as easily as he falls into the physical aspects, Cas is remarkably clueless.

“Okay, yeah. We could, uh, probably, y’know, conserve water if we take a shower together.” Cas levels an extremely confused gaze at Dean’s forehead, and Dean starts to flush. Maybe he was wrong.  Maybe Cas wanted him out before Balthazar even showed, and now he’s just too polite to kick Dean out.

But then Cas is smiling and standing up and Dean stops panicking. “Do you mean sex?”

“Uh, do you want me to?”

“It doesn’t sound very safe, Dean,” Cas says as he walks into the bathroom. Dean rises and follows him in like he’s on a leash.

“You know what’s not safe? Planes. Planes ain’t safe, and people fly in them all the time.”

Cas laughs as Dean closes the door behind him.

“It’s true, you asshole.”

“It’s a valid concern, Dean.”

“Damn straight.”

Cas moves to turn on the shower, turning the knob to warm. Dean watches him stick out his ass, the sweatpants not doing much to conceal his tight lines.

When Cas turns around, Dean's eyes take a moment to rise up to the appropriate level. By the time they do make it to Cas' face, he's laughing and Dean is blushing.

"Shut up," Dean says, although Cas hasn't said anything. Yet. He knows it's coming.

But Cas just wiggles his butt around like he's trying - and failing, epically - to dance, and then, without warning, drops trou. Dean's still trying to take in the almost - twerk when he realises that's a naked Cas in front of him; a real,  live, naked Castiel. Their activities the night before hadn't given Dean this kind of view, and therefore, Dean feels it is both his right and obligation to take a moment to completely and unashamedly ogle Cas.

He's definitely not as built as Dean; the muscle on Cas is lean and streamlined but clearly still there. He has runner’s calves and hockey thighs - strong and bulky enough to get the job done on and off the ice. His chest is pretty devoid of hair - he’s no Pierce Brosnan - but toned, down to the almost six-pack that Dean figures emerges during physical exertion. He puts it on his mental bucket list to one day be the cause of that six-pack.

Then, of course, there’s his dick. Dean’s eyes have been skipping around it, unsure where to look. He thinks that’s kind of stupid, considering he was touching it last night, so he forces himself to look straight at it and hope that it’s not the same deal as the sun.

It’s really just a dick. He knew that already - it’s not like it’s exceedingly different from his; the main problem is the fact that Castiel is attached to the dick. Dean doesn’t really want to think about the issues he’s trying to force down into the dumpster of his psyche - mainly that he is not homosexual and cannot be homosexual, because that’s not a thing that would have flown with Papa Winchester - although, considering that the past 10 years of Dean’s existence have been a big fuck you to John, maybe the logical path would be to come out, just to piss his dad off even more.

He feels stuck on this thought, this idea, that he can’t be gay because he just _isn’t_ , which doesn’t make a shit ton of sense. Hell, he supports gay rights, he respects the lifestyle, but there’s something about telling someone “it’s cool that you’re gay” that isn’t quite the same as “I might be gay, you cool with that?”

Dean is having very profound thoughts while staring at a dick.

“Dean?” Cas startles him. “Why are you staring at my penis like it can cure cancer?”

Dean wonders if it would be wrong to wink and say, “Because it can.” It probably is wrong, but he does it anyway - big gay freakout aside, Dean’s still got the flirting down pat.

Cas narrows his eyes and climbs into the shower. “That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s what you said,” Dean replies, shucking his boxers and following Cas in.

Cas pretends to ignore him, engrossed in the label on the hotel soap, until Dean places a hand low on Cas’ back.

“Hey.”

Cas turns to him, water dripping off the black mop (rest in peace, sex hair).

“I think I understand what you’re upset about, Dean.”

Dean blinks. Not the response he’d been expecting. “That’s - uh, okay. Great. D’you wanna - uh, y’know. Bring your magic dick over here?” He will always deflect emotions with offers of sex.

Cas turns toward him, hands on his hips. Dean can honestly say he’s never gotten a dressing down while he’s already - well, dressed down - and the way the water droplets are slipping down Cas’ chest and into the V of his hips is absolutely giving him a boner.

“You’re confused because I’m a man,” Cas says matter-of-factly.

“What?” Dean’s not going to argue, just … what?

“You still think you’re straight,” he says, like Dean’s a misguided soul who’s been fed bullshit since birth (actually…).

“Because I am?” It comes out more as a question than anything, and Dean hates himself for that.

“But you enjoyed last night?” Cas presses, coming closer until his body is a line against Dean’s. “You enjoy this?”

Dean’s breath catches as Cas’ hand trails down Dean’s back, settling on his ass with a squeeze.

“Well, yeah,” he says, his voice breathier than he’d care to admit. “Who wouldn’t?”

“And if I did this,” Cas circles his hips against Dean.

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” slips out, as the wet friction gets Dean’s dick increasingly interested.

“You don’t think,” Cas stops moving, “You don’t think that’s a little strange for a straight man?”

“I don’t know, Cas,” Dean whines. “I just like you - I mean, you’re hot, and you feel so fucking good.” He pulls Cas’ hips into him, trying to get him moving once more. “Why d’we hafta put a label on it?”

“It’s not the label, it’s just that you - well, frankly, Dean, you seem afraid of my penis.”

“I’m not - I’m not afraid of your dick.” It’s a testament to Dean’s mental maturity that he still refuses to say the p-word. “If I was afraid of your dick, would I do this?” He sinks down to his knees and looks Cas in the eye meaningfully.

“That’s not what I - _oh_.”

Cas’ hand searches for something to hold onto as Dean takes him in his mouth; eventually it ends up in Dean’s hair.

Dean has, clearly, never given a blow job before, and he thinks that maybe it was a bad idea to start his first one as proof of his appreciation of Cas’ dick. He has, however, received plenty, and he has to say, Cas’ dick doesn’t taste as bad as he’d expected. The precome’s just sort of salty and it tastes like Cas, and he figures he can deal with that.

His thumb digs into Cas’ hip as he takes more and more of him into his mouth, until he feels like he’s about to choke.

Cas tugs on Dean’s hair, a low moan ripping out of his throat. It’s a massive fucking turn on, really, the pressure at the back of Dean’s head and that sound coming from Cas, and it makes Dean want to make it happen again and again and again.

He wraps a hand around the base of Cas’ dick and puts his experience to use, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue until Cas makes that gorgeous sound again.

“Dean,” Cas hisses. “ _Dean._ ” His fingers push at Dean’s jaw. At first, Dean thinks Cas is trying to get him closer, go further into his mouth, but then Cas is pulling him upright and slotting their mouths together.

“I want to-” Cas breaks away from his mouth for a second and Dean takes the opportunity to mouth along his jaw. “I want to do it together,” Cas says.

Dean understands immediately. He continues to press kisses to Cas’ neck as he takes both of their cocks in hand and jacks them off - together. And they do come together, Dean a stroke after Cas; and Cas moans again and Dean almost slips on the wet shower floor, but Cas catches him with a laugh; and they sink down to the floor together, and they stay there for a long time.

After a while, Dean caves and grabs the little shampoo bottle on one of the ledges. Cas watches as he squeezes it out into his hand and his eyes maybe roll back a little as Dean starts massaging it into Cas’ hair.

“Think I have a kink for your hair,” he mutters. He pushes Cas’ head under the stream of water, running his fingers through his hair until all the shampoo is gone.

“That’s fairly specific,” Cas says. His voice comes out lazy and slow, and when Dean stops petting him, he leans his head into the crook of Dean’s neck.

Dean laughs. “What, did I wear you out?”

“Mmmm.” Cas snuggles closer.

With the shower pounding down on them, Dean suggests they move elsewhere. “How ‘bout we get dry and go back to sleep for twenty minutes?”

Cas sighs. “I really do need a shower. I finally understand what ‘smelling like sex’ means.”

Dean grumbles, but it’s not like he really minds pulling Cas to his feet and soaping him up. It’s weirdly intimate and like nothing Dean’s ever done before, but Cas is all floppy limbs and soft kisses and the way he returns the favor, sloppy but attentive; it’s all worth it.

They’re hardly dried off and only half clothed by the time Dean’s pushing Cas into bed and crawling in after him. Cas curls up around him and he’s about to protest being the little spoon but it feels pretty damn nice and he figures Cas isn’t going to tell anyone, so he lets himself relax back into Cas’ chest, tangling their legs together.

“I think you’re bisexual,” Cas whispers into his ear, just as he feels himself slipping off into a sleepy haze.

Dean opens his eyes. “Wow. We really gotta work on your pillow talk, man.”

“I just thought you should consider it,” he says, nuzzling into his neck.

“Great. Yeah. Thanks, duly noted,” but Cas doesn’t pick up Dean’s sarcasm.

“Good.”

Dean drifts off again, waking only when Cas pokes him in the jaw.

“No.”

“I thought I should wake you up.”

“Nooo.”

Cas shifts away, taking the warmth with him. Dean flops onto his back.

“It’s almost 10, Dean.”

“Ugh, fuck.” He rolls out of bed and starts looking for pants, or a shirt, or really anything.

“You need more clothing, don’t you?” Cas is propped up on the bed, looking stupidly smug about it.

Dean’s pretty sure that’s dried come on his shirt, so. “I have jeans,” he says lamely.

Cas stands and unzips his bag anyway. “Preferably without advertising for your team,” Dean says.

Cas chucks a grey t-shirt at Dean’s head. “Comets-free.”

“You’re the best, Cas.” Dean shoots a winning smile before he disappears under the fabric of the shirt. He quickly zips himself into his jeans and steps into his boots, but finds he’s not so eager to leave. He’s going to be late anyway, he reasons, no matter how fast he drives.

He lingers by the door until Cas practically shoves him out. “Hey, hey, wait.” Dean kisses him before he can get the door all the way open. “I had fun last night.”

“Me too, Dean. You’re going to be late.”

“Yeah, yeah. Practice is every day. ‘m not gonna see you for a while.” Dean’s hands go to the elastic of Cas’ sweatpants, giving him an excuse not to meet Cas’ eyes. He feels stupid and needy and fucking _weird_ , like a chick that got the wrong impression from a one-nighter.

“I’ll call you, I promise.” Cas takes Dean’s head in his hands and forces him to look. “We’ll do this again.”

Cas’ eyes look so _blue_ in the faint lighting, and it’s easy for Dean to get lost in them and calm way the fuck down. “Why’re you so awesome?”  

Cas just laughs and pushes him out the door. “Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean watches the door close on Cas before he hurries down the hall. He figures the stairs give him a better chance of making it out unseen, so he sprints down the four flights and out the lobby. For a second, he thinks he sees Balthazar and one of the Godsons, but he’s pretty sure neither of them notices him, and then he’s out and in the Impala.

Dean’s twenty minutes late to practice. Bobby makes him run laps around the stadium hallways. He grins like an idiot the entire time.

Totally worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in case you were wondering the porn just happened. inexplicably. very strange.  
> i'm thinking two more chapters, in which i will aggressively attempt to wrap everything up. i have plans.  
> in other words this is already the longest story i've ever written, hells yeah. hockey fanfic can work wonders.  
> also i'm probably going to take a little while to get the next chapter up because i'll be in ocean city for the next week, but have no fear, i shan't abandon this one. just hang in there with me and i promise i'll make it worth your while (:  
> WOOHOOOOO MIDNIGHT WRITING.  
> i love you guys.  
> now i must sleep.


	10. A focus on phone calls

It’s a week before Dean takes the first quiz.

He thinks it’s a fluke, so he takes three more.

Fuck.

While he’s still attempting to reconcile himself to the idea of bisexuality, his phone starts to ring.

It’s Cas.

“Hey,” he says, closing his laptop with a sigh. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to talk to you. Am I interrupting something?”

Dean tries to laugh, but it comes out weak. “Nah. I’m just sittin’ around.”

“Are you sure?”

This time, Dean’s laugh is more real. “Yeah, I’m sure. How was your day?” He'll deal with his sexuality later, when the person who challenged it isn't in earshot.

Cas goes on to tell him about the practice that turned into a shoving match between Balthazar and Uriel, which is apparently very strange, considering that they were best friends the week before. Dean shares about his makeup date with Charlie, laughing as he recounts the duel she challenged him to after they finished all the LOTR movies. He’d like to say he let her win, but she’s damn handy with a plastic sword.

“I wish our schedules weren’t so damn crazy,” Dean says eventually. “We could probably have some pretty good sword fights.”

“I’ve never had a sword fight before.”

“Well, we gotta change that, buddy.”

“Perhaps next time,” Cas says. Dean can hear the smile in his voice.

“It’s a date.”

Dean’s making dinner tonight and he can hear Chuck slamming things around in the fridge, which is never a good thing. He should get out there before something goes up in flames.

“Shit, Cas, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

“Don’t touch the chicken, it’s marinating!” Dean drops his phone on his bed and sprints to the kitchen, hoping he’s in time to save dinner.

Chuck really is shit at cooking.

…………………………….

_Three weeks later_

_.........................................._

“Sammy?”

“Dean! Hey! How are you?”

“I’m...uh, I’m good. How’re you? How’s Jess? And the apartment?”

“Whoa, whoa, interrogation much?” Sam laughs. “We’re all good. The new apartment’s great, Dean, you gotta see it.”

“Yeah, that’s actually why I’m calling.” Dean pauses, trying to find a way to word it. “We’re playing a game in your area next week and I was wondering, um…”

“You want to come visit?” Dean can almost see Sam sitting up abruptly, the excited puppy dog expression on his face.

“If you guys want me,” Dean says. He wants to, he really does. He misses his little brother. He hasn’t been calling as much as he usually does, mostly because playoffs are coming up and Bobby has them practicing more and more, and so much of Dean’s free time is taken up with texting Cas and larping with Charlie. And he feels like a real shitty big brother a lot of the time, and he doesn’t want to be one of those annoying houseguests that just invite themselves over.

“Of course we want you, Dean.” His voice is firm, like he knows Dean’s overthinking everything. “I have to tell Jess, she’s gonna be so excited.”

Dean relaxes. “Yeah, I’m sure you nerds don’t get superstar guests all the time.”

“I dunno, last week I met Tom Hanks.”

“You - _seriously_? Like ‘run, Forrest, run’ Tom Hanks?”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, my boss knows him through their kids or something and he came in for a lunch meeting.”

“Did you fangirl?” Dean asks with a smile, sinking back onto his couch. They’re falling into their comfortable old banter easily, and it’s only now that Dean remembers how much he really does mis Sam.

“I don’t _fangirl_.”

“Yeah, you do.”

…………….............

“I dunno, man, I’m just kinda freaking out.” Dean’s pacing back and forth at the airport.

“Don’t worry about the plane, Dean, you’ll be fine.”

“It’s not that - well, now it is. Thanks, asshole. It’s - I’m gonna be seeing Sammy and Jess for the first time in a year and I don’t want to fuck it up.”

“Dean.” Cas sounds almost exasperated. “He sounds excited to see you. You won’t fuck it up.” Fuck sounds strange coming out of Cas’ mouth, but also sort of...hot. The last time it happened was when Cas was pissed on their pizza date, which hadn't sounded hot so much as scary. Dean likes this better.

"I won't fuck it up?"

"No, you won't fuck it up."

"So I won't fuck it up, then?"

"No, Dean, I don't understand why you keep repeating things."

"Maybe just say fuck about four times. Real slow."

"Dean..." Cas is probably about to tell him that getting a fix for his voice kink in an airport isn't "advisable" or something stupid like that, but Dean'd rather think about how to deal with a boner in public than freak out about seeing Sam.

"Fuck," Cas says instead, his voice pure gravel and thunder and sex. "Fuck."

"Okay, never mind. Never mind. I don't think I can take two more." He's standing in the middle of the terminal, hoping that his cheeks aren't as red as they feel and his voice isn't as wrecked as he thinks.

"Fuck me," Cas responds. Dean trips over someone's suitcase and goes sprawling onto the floor. His phone is back at his ear in time to hear Cas say, "Or maybe fuck you," in the most thoughtfully provocative tone Dean can imagine.

"Fuck." Dean breathes.

"Are you okay?" A lady is hovering by him, looking ready to help. He waves her away with an "I'm fine, thanks," and stands up, trying to ignore the head rush he gets that's probably mostly due to the feeling that every single drop of blood in his body has been funneled down into his dick.

"Are you okay?" This time, it's Cas. He probably heard the breath get knocked out of Dean.

"Uh..." He has lost the ability to speak for a very long moment.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I'm, uh." He almost runs into another girl and that's when he decides he needs to get off his feet and maybe dunk his entire body into an ice bath. He settles for a chair by the garbage can.

"Do you like it when I talk about fucking you?" He sounds so fucking casual.

"Shit, Cas, you can't just say things like that." Dean tries to ignore the way his heart beats faster at the thought of Cas inside him, which is probably better evidence than the tests that he just might be bi.

"Why?"

Why? Because - because ... well, damn. Dean can't think of any good reason. He kind of likes it, he realises.

"It's weird," he finally says. It doesn't even sound like he tried.

He hears Cas chuckle, just a little bit. "Just weird?"

"You're a fucking weirdo." It comes out less accusing and more loving than Dean originally intended, but whatever.

"You have a habit of liking weird things," Cas counters.

Dean can't argue with that. Again. "This isn't even what I wanted to talk to you about," he whines.

"You're about to board soon. Now you'll have something to distract yourself with until the game."

Dean narrows his eyes. "You did that on purpose."

Cas changes subject like a champ, Dean finds. "Oh, Dean." His voice is somehow breathy and powerful all at once. "I've been watching porn." And now he sounds like a pornstar, too.  "I can't wait to try it out, take your cock-"

"Yo, Dean, plane's boarding."

He throws his phone at Chuck in some twisted reflex, his heart beating like a fucking jackhammer.

"Fucking hell, Chuck, don't sneak up on me like that." He knows his cheeks are red and his eyes probably look like glazed donuts, and all he can think is that Cas is probably talking dirty into the floor right now and _god_ Dean wants to hear that.

"Dude, I do not need a concussion right before this game." Chuck stoops to pick up Dean's phone. "Phones were not meant to fly." He hands it back to Dean with a significant look.

"What?"

"Say hi to Cas for me."

And then Chuck fucking swaggers away, leaving Dean wondering when he grew up from the stammering little drunk guy into this smooth dipshit.

"Hello? Dean?"

"Oh, shit. Sorry, Cas, apparently we're boarding now. I gotta go."

"Good luck with the game and Sam. You'll be fine, Dean. You're ready."

"Thanks, Cas. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay. Text me when you get there."

"Bye, babe."

"Babe?"

Dean ends the call before he humiliates himself any further. Babe feels so wrong when it's describing Cas. Never again.

He takes his backpack and follows the rest of the guys onto the plane. Somebody was feeling particularly generous when the seats were booked, and that's why Dean finds himself in a first class recliner next to Benny.

As he's sitting down, he gets a text. All it says is " **Babe?** "

**To Cas:**

**that was a mistake**

"Who’re you texting all the time?" Benny asks, leaning over Dean's shoulder.

**To Dean:**

**I'm not opposed to terms of endearment, but perhaps you could choose a better one.**

"Who's Cas?"

Apparently Dean wasn't fast enough at snatching his phone away, because now Benny's perusing his old messages.

"Gimme my phone back," Dean says, making a desperate grab. Benny holds it just out of reach while he continues to scroll. " _Benny_."

Benny sees something then, something that makes him freeze, and then he very carefully hands the phone back to Dean.  

When Dean looks at the screen, he sees a new text:

**To Dean:**

**Balthazar has asked me if I've "sexted" you yet. Is this a milestone in normal relationships?**

"Um." Dean says.

Benny raises an eyebrow and adjusts his seat before he meets Dean's eyes. "Cas? And Balthazar?"

"It's not-"

"Castiel. Novak, right?"

Dean swears he sees his life flash before his eyes. He's fucked. This is the end. His career is over and his income is through and he'll just go live in a bomb shelter in Montana until the press gets tired of his gaiety.

Benny shakes his head. "Shit, man, I'm sorry I called him Novass. Dick move."

Dean frowns. He'd been expecting Benny to turn away and ice him out.

But Benny instead turns _to_ Dean, patting his shoulder in a way that suggests that he doesn't really give a shit about the not-strictly-straight thing. "That's why you been weird lately. You're in love."

"I'm - I'm not-" Dean sputters. Even though he is. He totally is.

"No biggie, brother. As long as you're happy and you can handle playin' against him, I'm gonna support you. You need someone like that in your life."

Dean just stares at him.

"I ain't gonna tell anyone," Benny adds. "Not if you don't want me to."

"You're serious?"

"Dean." All Benny has to do is say that one syllable and Dean realises how stupid he's been.

"Right. Yeah. Thank you, Benny."

They've never had an overly wordy friendship, but Dean's never been so glad that a few words is all he needs to let Benny know how much it means.

Benny smiles, slow and wide, in that way that takes over his whole face, and Dean feels his own mouth returning it.

"I'm lookin' forward to seeing Alastair again," he says. "I wanna break his face."

The last time the Shotguns and the Devils met, Alastair gave Dean two black eyes and a bloody skate cut through the left arm of his jersey. Dean's ready to butt heads again, too, and that's a major understatement.

The flight goes smoothly, except for a spot of turbulence about an hour in that has Dean fantasizing about Cas in increasingly vivid scenes; it helps keep the anxiety about hurtling through the air in a tin can bearable. When Dean isn't imagining Cas fucking him hard, he and Benny are talking strategy and family updates and a little larp, which Dean counts as a win because now Benny's almost possibly considering coming out to the battlefield some time.

It's nice just getting to talk, but all the same, Dean's relieved when the plane touches down. He texts Cas while the team's waiting by the baggage claim, just a standard " **I survived and nobody died** " check in sort of thing.

As a follow-up, he sends a picture of his shoe.

**To Cas:**

**Does this count**

His phone lights up almost immediately.

**To Dean:**

**I told you you would live.**

**To Dean:**

**I think I have to go masturbate now.**

Dean laughs so hard he wheezes and Benny has to come slap him on the back before he stops.

"What's happenin', brother?"

Dean debates actually showing him the texts, but Benny correctly interprets Dean's hesitance and shakes his head.

"Never mind. I don't wanna know."

Dean's about to text back when a flying duffel bag hits him in the gut.

"Shit, sorry." Adam's standing by the carousel, a sheepish grin on his face. "I thought my aim was better."

Dean flips him off, but he's grateful that he doesn't have to search for it now. Positives of traveling with your team: everyone looks out for each other.

**To Cas:**

**I didn't know my feet got u all hot and bothered**

**To Dean:**

**Oh yes. Very much so.**

Dean follows everyone onto the team bus, still texting Cas. Nobody pays him much attention, probably because that's his routine nowadays.

**To Cas:**

**Any other turn ons I should know about**

**To Dean:**

**I haven't had nearly as much experience as you. You go first.**

**To Cas:**

**So like kink truth or dare**

**To Dean:**

**That sounds appropriate.**

**To Cas:**

**There's this 1 thing but ur gonna think it's weird**

**To Dean:**

**Isn't that the purpose of this?**

Dean looks around furtively. Still nobody watching.

**To Cas:**

**Okay there was this one time in high school when a girl made me try on her panties and idk it was kinda nice**

He makes himself send it before he can have second thoughts, and then he contemplates deleting the entire conversation from his phone, but he can't bring himself to do it because he kind of feels like these texts are history in the making and it's his job to preserve them.

Cas takes a while to reply back, and Dean starts to wonder if maybe panties are over Cas' threshold for turn ons.

**To Dean:**

**I am pleasuring myself right now thinking about you in them.**

Dean swallows, hard.

**To Cas:**

**They were pink and satiny**

He sets his phone on his knee, bouncing it up and down because that's going to be it; that restricted movement is going to be his one form of release for the next 30 minutes.

**To Dean:**

**I think we just passed that milestone I mentioned earlier.**

Dean bites back a groan. Cas totally just came thinking about Dean's kink (okay, one of Dean's kinks), and the only reason that's not okay is that Dean can't do the same. It's cruel.

Clearly, Dean is a masochist, because he furthers the agony.

**To Cas:**

**u still have to tell me one of yours**

Cas takes a while to respond, during which time Dean's boner starts to subside and Kevin is able to distract him with conversation about the probabilities of a zombie apocalypse (according to Kevin: not high).

When he finally does respond, it's worth it.

**To Dean:**

**I have a kink for cowboys that know their way around cars and eat too much bacon.**

**To Cas:**

**That's not fair, it's not a kink if it's just you being in love with me**

He smiles at the response.

**To Dean:**

**You are my kink.**

**To Dean:**

**Alternatively, http://youtu.be/SqfXsHflOVo.**

Dean frowns when he sees the link, because Cas still refuses to upgrade his phone to something that actually gets Internet, so that means he had to actually type the address into his phone, while looking at his computer. Which probably means it's something important.

It's not.

Well, it might be, but it's basically just really shitty hip-hop rap top 100 crap music that makes Dean want to rip out his ear buds. The only thing he gets out of it is that Cas has a really awful taste in music. And that Cas likes dirty talk.

**To Cas:**

**I know how to say fuck in spanish, does that do it for you?**

**To Dean:**

**It's not so much the language barrier as your voice during sex.**

**To Cas:**

**Well in that case I like where your head's at**

They're at the arena not too long after that, so Dean has to bid Cas adieu and get his shit together before the game.

"You're so fucking whipped," Chuck whispers  as they're walking in.

"Speak for yourself, assbutt." Dean replies too quickly because _assbutt_ is a new one for him, and apparently a new one for Chuck, too.

Chuck snorts. "Assbutt?"

"Shut up." Dean feels himself coloring red. Cas' stupid curse words are seeping into his vocabulary and he should probably be more upset than he actually is.

"Like I said. Whipped."

Dean can't argue. It's true. He's somewhere between falling and plummeting into love with Cas and it's true.

But just because he's into a dude doesn't mean he's not going to fucking destroy a whole team of other dudes tonight. He's ready. They're going to win so hard. Also Cas will be watching at home. Just an also. An important also.

...................................................

The entire world is spinning.

Wait.

It is anyway, isn't it?

Dean laughs a little to himself, which gets a concerned frown from Benny.

Benny is spinning.

"Benny, you're a fucking ballerina," Dean says with a goofy smile.

"Bobby?" Benny calls across the ice. "Dean's gonna need a break."

It takes three people to get Dean off the ice. Dean doesn't understand why it's necessary.  He's totally fine. They should really clean up that red spot on the ice, though. It looks like someone died there. Probably not good for business. He hopes whoever it was that bled all over the place is okay.

The resident trainer looks at him weirdly. "You okay?"

" _You're_ okay, man."

They wrangle him into the locker room, where the world continues spinning. He might throw up a little on the ground, but he's not sure if that was just a dream or what because the next time he feels vaguely conscious, Jo is shining a light into his eyes.

"Dude, what the fuck?" His voice comes out slower and sloppier than he intended.

"Definitely concussed. Broken nose. You might need some stitches right here," her fingers hover over his left cheekbone, "but you'll be fine."

He takes a moment to orient himself. His head feels like he got run over by an overloaded semi truck and then trampled by a herd of upset buffalo, and his face is just one big ache that revolves around the sharp pain in his nose.

"Ow."

"Do you remember what happened?" Jo asks, still in her professional trainer mode. Dean's proud of her, really, but right now he all he wants to do is shut her up so she'll let him sleep.  "Dean, I'm serious. I need to know if you have any brain damage."

He sighs. "My name is Dean Winchester, I was born January 24, 1979, I'm in California and my head hurts like a motherfucker."

"So no," Jo concludes. She doesn't look terribly concerned, which is a comfort to Dean.

"I'm assuming it was Alistair."

She nods. "You broke his nose first. It was a pretty good hook."

Dean can almost remember the feeling of bone splintering, is now aware of the throbbing in his hand. There’s a hazy memory building in the back of his mind, like a film strip that’s been gathering dust for 70+ years. “Crowley and Alistair double teamed me, didn’t they?”

Jo looks pleased - Dean hopes it’s because of his returning memory and not because she enjoyed watching him get pounded into the ice. “Yeah, and you held your own for a while. Benny came in pretty quick, but Alastai - wait, you can just watch it. It’s probably replaying on ESPN, ‘cause they’re sick fucks.”

She fumbles with the locker room tv for a few moments before ESPN comes up, and she’s right. Even though it has to have been at least 10 minutes since it happened, they’re still slow-moing the shit out of it.

It starts when Alistair pushes Dean into a wall a little too aggressively; Dean retaliates by shoving Alistair aside, and then all of a sudden they both have their helmets off and Dean is smashing a fist into Alistair’s face. He falls back against a wall, blood starting to drip out between his fingers, when Crowley comes in with a punch to the ear for Dean. You can see that it disorients Dean for a second, and that’s all Alistair needs to respond with his own well-placed punch. Benny’s whaling on Alistair by the time Dean topples over backwards. He holds his breath when he sees his head about to crack off the ice, but Crowley, in the biggest plot twist ever, gets a hand under Dean’s skull at the last possible second and lowers him down.

“Whoa.” Dean touches the back of his head gingerly, imagining how much worse the already unbelievable pain would be. “I didn’t know he did that.”

“Yeah, turns out he’s not always a jackass.”

They sit in silence then, watching the game. Bobby put Zedd in to replace Dean, and the kid’s actually playing well. The Guns are already up 2-0 halfway through the 2nd period, which isn’t really a surprise because the Devils haven’t been good for at least 4 seasons.

“Shouldn’t I be going to a hospital?” Dean asks belatedly, prompted by the slow realisation that the edges of his vision are going blurry.

Jo leaps up from the bench. "Shit, yeah, I should get you fixed up."

"You _suck_ at this, dude," Dean says as she helps him up.

"I got caught up in the game," she says, pulling him down the hallway to the parking lot. "I'll drive you over to the nearest one and you'll be through in 15 minutes."

Dean assumes he didn't blackout on the way over because Jo knows not to let concussion victims lose consciousness; that doesn't mean that he remembers any of the drive, though. All he knows is that suddenly there's about 7 nurses arguing over who gets to touch Dean Winchester (two dudes) and a doctor who looks extremely through with their antics.

"Hey, hon, how you feelin'?"

He's sitting on a bed, trying to fight the urge to cry/pass out. "Pretty shitty," he says, earning a smile.

"Okay, well, we're gonna get you feelin' better real fast. Andy, get in here and clean up his nose." She steps away from Dean, replaced by a dude that looks way too excited to be wiping blood off of Dean's face.

It fucking hurts every time Andy touches his nose and meanwhile, the doctor - Missouri, her shirt says - is examining his hand. "Nothing broken here," she finally says.

Andy finishes cleaning off Dean's face, but before he takes his hands off, he winks - he _winks_ \- and says, "I'm a huge fan."

Dean's eyes widen, but Missouri kicks Andy out before it can go any further. "Get me some vicodin," she calls out after him.

"Sweet, I get the good stuff."

Missouri shakes her head. "You're gonna need to be out of your mind to deal with this. Now," she comes closer and begins prodding at his nose, slapping his shoulder when he flinches, "Hold still. Your nose don't look like it's too bad under all the blood. It should reset alright on its own, swelling'll be gone in a few days. No stitches, but I'll have Andy get you some butterflies. Now, it's that nasty concussion I'm worried about. Any blurs in vision?" Dean shakes his head, which he immediately regrets. "Okay, and I see you got a killer headache."

"Yeah," Dean says, not about to make the same mistake twice.

"Any memory loss?"

"The breaking of my face is a little hazy," he says. Missouri nods.

"I'm gonna give you some vicodin. When that wears off, Advil should be fine. You got someone to take you home?"

"Yeah, team's staying at a hotel tonight but I'm visiting my brother. My trainer can give me a lift."

"Good, 'cause you're not driving drugged and concussed. Stay away from bright electronics and heavy reading." Dean snorts at the last one, and Missouri shoots him a knowing glance.

"I'm gonna have a word with your trainer while Andy stops the hurtin'."

Dean ignores the innuendo in favor of throwing the proffered pill down his throat and praying for a reprieve from the hell within his own skull. Andy is standing too close again as he puts on the butterfly bandages. Once he's done, he rests a hand on Dean's shoulder in what might be an expression of comfort. Dean's not feeling extremely comforted, though. In fact, he's feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

"Dude."

Andy removes his hand. "Sorry, I've just never touched a celebrity before."

Dean tries to smile. "'S cool, man. You watch a lot of hockey?"

Andy shrugs. "Here and there. I'm a Shotguns fan, I gotta say."

The way his eyes are roving over Dean's face, he thinks maybe there's an unsaid " _and am in creepy fan love with Dean Winchester_ " floating around there somewhere, but Missouri barges back in with Jo in tow before Andy can get any creepier.

"You ready?" Missouri asks, and Dean's off the bed and at the door before his mouth even forms an answer.

He has to sign a few clipboards on the way out, because apparently celebrity status transcends medical professionalism. He doesn't blame them, he just really wants to get to a nice bed and sleep for two hours at a time.

He gives Jo the address as he climbs into her rental. She types it into her phone's GPS and starts out, a soft rock station playing in the background.

"Your bag's in the backseat if you need anything," she says after a minute.

Dean turns around and, sure enough, his duffel bag is there. "I didn't realise you grabbed this," he says, pulling it towards him in search of his phone.

"You were pretty out of it," Jo says, shooting a glance over at him. "You're the scariest injury I've had to date."

"You almost forgot to take me to the hospital," he says, narrowing his eyes. "Can't have been that scary."

She rolls her eyes. "That doctor said you were fine, basically, just not to let you go comatose or get addicted to pain meds. We probably didn't even need to go, but there was a shit load of blood and I didn't want you to bleed out or anything."

"Speaking of pain meds," Dean says, but he can feel his tongue fucking up every word it touches. "I think it's kickin' in." He feels a little like he's flying, but at least the pain in his nose has gone down to a soft throb.

He finds his phone a few seconds later, 13 texts and 4 missed calls waiting for him.

"Hey, Missouri said no bright electronics," Jo says before he can get past the lock screen.  

"Brightness _down_ ," he says, and when the voice command doesn't work, he goes into settings and puts it down at the lowest level. "Happy?"

Jo looks at it and nods. "That's fine."

"Heyyy, why are you buzzing?" It's vibrating so _hard_ and Dean forgets how to answer the call until the green light on the screen starts getting bigger.

"Helloooo?" His voice tips up at the end like a little kid. "Who is it?"

"Dean? Dean, are you okay?" Cas sounds raspy and hot and Dean wishes he were here.

"Caaaas! What's up?"

"What's - are you on drugs?"

Jo pulls the phone away from Dean for a second, just to say, "vicodin for a broken nose,  sort of concussed," and then she hands it back.

"Yeah, that."

"Are you okay?"

Dean sighs. "My face kinda hurts."

"Well, it sounds like the vicodin is kicking in."

"Don't want vicodin. Want you to kiss it and make it better."

Jo freezes and shoots him a glance, which he returns with his saddest-looking frown.

"Jo, can you pick up Cas on the way to Sam's?"

"Um, where does Cas live?"

"Boston," he says. "Bahston. Bahstahn." He can never get the accent.  

"Uh, I don't think so, buddy."

"I'm sending you a phone kiss," Cas interjects. "Did you get it?"

His nose _does_ feel better. "Thank you, Cas. It really helped."

Cas laughs softly on the other end of the line. "I saw the fight and panicked a little. Ignore all the messages."

"You're so cute," Dean says with a smile. "I think I'm in love with you."

Jo makes a spluttering sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a cough. Dean ignores it.

"Me too," Cas says quietly.  "I'm glad you're okay, Dean."

"Am I okay?"

"You're fine, you turd," Jo contributes helpfully.

"Awesome," Dean says.

"As much fun as this conversation is, I think I'll leave you to your drive."

"Baaaaabe, nooo."

Jo snorts.

"I thought we decided babe wasn't going to work," Cas says. Dean can hear the smile in his voice and that, in turn, makes Dean smile.

"Pumpkin nutter," he tries. "Honeybuns."

"I think I'd like you to try this again when you're not drugged."

"Sweetheart? _Angel_."

"Dean-"

"Nonono wait I got it. Nerd. You're such a fuckin' nerd I love you nerdbabe."

Jo is full on cackling by this point, and Dean has no idea what's so funny. "Could you keep it down?" He asks. She responds by biting the collar of her shirt to muffle the sounds.

"Nerdbabe?" Cas repeats.

"Nerdbabe. Or maybe sex muffin, that's kinda cute, right?"

"I think I prefer nerdbabe."

"What about me? I'm, like, Batman, or somethin' coolio."

"Ummm..." Cas thinks for a moment. "Freckles. Your codename is freckles."

"Dude, I _do_ have freckles!"

"You do," Cas agrees.

"Freckles and Nerdbabe. We fucking rock, Cas."

"We do rock," Cas says. He pauses for a few moments, then; "I have to go, freckles. Call me in the morning?"

"Will do, nerdbabe." Dean salutes and hangs up.

"Cas?" Jo prompts shortly after. "Who is he?"

"He's my nerdbabe," Dean says, giggling. "He's on the Comets and he has this sex hair and _god_ is he hot."

"He's on the Comets?" Jo repeats. "What does he play?"

"He's the new goalie."

Jo's eyes widen. "Holy shit, you and him? He's _hot_."

"I told you," Dean says, feeling pleased.

"I didn't know you were into guys," Jo says slowly, watching Dean's face.

He shrugs. "Me neither, but 'parently I'm a bi - bi - bicycle?"

"Bisexual?"

"Yeah, that. I like tits and dicks 'parently."

"I really love you like this," Jo says as she pulls into a parking lot. "You're all sweet and honest."

"Cause I'm on druuugs."

She laughs. "Yeah, let's not make this a habit, okay?"

It takes a little effort to get him out of the car, but once they're at the door, Jo gets them buzzed in pretty quickly and then Dean's able to slouch against the wall of the elevator.

They find room 12B without too much drama, mostly because there's a fucking Sasquatch standing outside the door.

"Sammy!" Dean falls into his brother's arms with a smile. Sam almost drops him.

"Hey, Dean, you okay?"

"I think you grew again," he mumbles into Sam's plaid shirt.

Jo hands Sam the duffel bag. "They gave him some vicodin for the broken nose, so he's sorta out of it."

"I missed your musk," he says, breathing into the plaid.

Sam laughs. "Anything else?"

"He's got a minor concussion, so you should probably wake him up every two or three hours to make sure he's good."

Sam nods. "I think we can manage that. Thank you for bringing him."

"Anytime. I'll see you later, Dean," and with a touch on his arm, she's gone.

Sam wrangles Dean into the apartment, where he detaches and instead hugs Jess like it's the end of the world.

She's a saint, like always, and she hugs back just as tight. "Heya, Dean."

"'Sup, Jess?" He spits out a mouthful of her hair and steps away. "I wanna sleep."

Sam and Jess converge in front of him, leading him to a bedroom, where he promptly collapses onto the bed.

"Thanks, guys. You're the best."

And then he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who knows what vicodin does. i don't. i don't know. it probably doesn't make you loopy but i'm already taking tons of liberties with everything in here so! WOOHOO!  
> in other news, i don't know what happens to injured athletes (do they go to hospitals? do they get treated at the arena? I DON'T KNOOOOW), jo is ooc and cas is a total nerdbabe. i'm sleep deprived and right now i think that's the funniest thing in the world, so let's see how i feel about that tomorrow, haha.  
> anyway, thanks to everyone who's been following this wacky story since the beginning, & thanks to everyone who's somehow managed to find it and give me los kudos. y'all make me smile & i hope this story continues to do the same. as always, let me know if you catch anything out of order/you can shed some light on the inner workings of anything that i managed to screw up.  
> also yes, yes i did take personality tests as dean winchester in order to get screenshots of his blatant bisexuality. yes.  
> \---the youtube link leads to talk dirty by jason derulo---  
> stay classy, san diego.


	11. admit that you have a problem

The final time Dean wakes up, it’s somewhere around 7. He vaguely remembers the occasional shake & wake of the night before, possibly slapping Sam across the face once or twice; but he genuinely winces when he recalls the phone call with Cas. Oh fuck, _nerdbabe_? Last time he lets anyone give him vicodin, that’s for sure; but on the plus side his face is hurting significantly less, even now.

His first move is to reach for his phone and call Cas. It's on its second ring when he realises that Cas is probably either A, sleeping, or B, at practice - and he's about to hang up when Cas answers.

"Dean?"

"Hey, man," Dean sits up on the bed, ignoring the throbbing in his head. "Sorry about last night."

He can almost hear Cas' lips split apart into a smile. "Do you mean you regret Freckles and Nerdbabe?"

"Fuck, Cas, I was out of my mind. I'm not calling you nerdbabe."

"Are you sure? You seemed fairly excited about it."

"Fuck you," Dean says without any real vigor. "Let's just pretend it never happened and get on with our lives."

"Okay," Cas says, in that tone that implies that no, it will not ever be forgotten and yes, Cas will bring it up at every Thanksgiving and family function for the rest of their lives.

Dean exhales quickly, like the thought had punched him in the gut. It had been building up in the back of his mind for days; but he'd just roped it off and pretended it didn't exist. The fact that he can't picture life without Cas, a life without texts and calls and beautiful blue eyes, that scares him. Not as much as it used to, but it scares him.

"How are you feeling now?"

Like a true Winchester, he swallows it down and stuffs it back into that VIP section of his brain and resolves not to touch it for another 13 years or so.

"My face feels kinda swollen, but the pain ain't too bad." He gingerly touches his nose, wincing as it pulses beneath his fingers. Probably not helmet ready, then.

"And I'm assuming you didn't slip into a coma overnight," Cas says.

"Har har har. Maybe this is the coma and I'm having a coma dream about you."

"If this is what you regularly dream about, I am so sorry."

Dean blushes. "Not - not phone calls. Other stuff."

"Other stuff?" Cas prompts.

"I dunno, like werewolves and hellhounds and eternal damnation and shit like that." He pauses a moment. "And sex."

"As interesting as eternal damnation sounds, I'd like to hear about your sex dreams."

"You're one horny bastard, Cas. Almost as bad as me."

"I went for 32 years of my existence without sex. I like it and I like you and I really like both combined. The phone makes it hard."

Dean snorts. "Great. I unleashed a sex monster."

"I don't really like porn," Cas says then, which was approximately not at all the direction Dean expected the conversation to take.

He doesn't blame Cas. "Not a porn kinda dude? It is pretty shitty most of the time." It's usually just awful props and unrealistic people doing things in unrealistic positions (though that one time he'd been with a porn actress, that had been pretty magical).

"It's very strange. Like they only exist for the sex."

"Well, you do have that "don't talk to strangers" thing goin' on, so it sorta makes sense."

"It's called demisexual," Cas laughs. "I'm demisexual."

"Demi what? Is that like bi - bi - whatever you think I am?" He doesn't mention the stupid online quizzes.

"I'm not bisexual, no, but in a basic element, it is the, um, "don't talk to strangers" concept. I'm not attracted to people I haven't yet developed an emotional bond with."

"We've developed an emotional bond?" Dean says quietly, not sure that he wants to hear the answer.

"I feel that we do share a profound bond," Cas replies, like it's a normal thing to say.

"Cool," is all Dean can think of. "That's cool."

They sit in silence for a while, then, and it's not awkward but soothing, and Dean realises that he'd rather be in the silence with Cas than anywhere else with anyone else (except maybe with Sammy, but Sammy's always an exception).

This is what prompts him to speak. "D'you wanna come down to Kansas for the summer?"

There's another break, another long, quiet moment.

"I mean, you don't have to, I just thought-"

"I would love to," Cas finally says. His voice cracks a little from the emphasis he puts on love. "Are you sure you..."

"Am I sure I want you? Hell yes, Cas, I want you. We might have to put up with Sam and Jess for a few days but, I mean, if you're interested, um. Yeah."

"I'm extremely interested," is all Cas says. His voice sounds a little cloudy, like he needs to clear his throat.

Dean silently fist pumps. He totally just winged that.

"Maybe we can do some of things we talked about earlier," Cas says.

"Like what?" Dean isn't really paying attention.

"Fucking. Maybe we can fuck."

Sometimes Dean forgets that Cas is blunter than a spoon.

He sputters into the phone, at which point Sam barges through the door like a fucking moose.

"Is everything okay?" He asks, like he's been waiting for Dean to break into a seizure all night.

Dean waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just gimme a minute." Sam gives him a confused look but backs out of the room all the same, closing the door behind him. "Sam," is all Dean says to explain the break in conversation.

"How has it been?" Cas asks, earnest.

"I dunno, I've been unconscious most of the time. I think we're okay, though. What were you sayin' before?" Dean says, more interested in Cas talking about fucking than his brother (which, coincidentally, are two thoughts that he never intended to entertain at the same time).

"You should talk to him," Cas says. "I'll talk to you when you're back in Chicago."

"No - wait, Cas-" but then he's been hung up on and he has no choice really but to go out and face the subsequent interrogation.

Sam is leaning on the wall outside the door when Dean opens it. "Who was that?" And then, "are you feeling okay?"

"Fine and none of your business," Dean says, punching Sam lightly in the chest to illustrate both of his points. "You got any food here? I'm starving."

Sam rubs his pec and bitchfaces, but he leads Dean into the kitchen and pulls a carton of eggs out of the fridge.

"Okay, I got this." Dean takes the eggs from Sam because truth be told, Sam cooks worse than Chuck (and Chuck cooks like a fucking toddler).

Sam protests when Dean won't give the carton back. "You're the guest, Dean, I don't want you to have to do anything."

That hurts. Dean has since been relegated from brother to guest and that fucking hurts.

"I don't wanna just be the guest," he says, opening and closing cabinet doors in search of a pan. It doesn't make him feel much better when Sam pulls one out and sets it on the stovetop.

Dean sighs. "I don't want to be your guest," he says, softer. His hands begin to work on their own, cracking eggs and whipping them into a scramble in yet another bowl that Sammy's magicked up. "I wish I could see you guys more often, I guess." Because everyone knows the next step after a new home together is a wedding and then a baby and he doesn't fucking want to be the kind of uncle that never shows up, is never around to play catch with or give the kid candy or teach it how to drive. He doesn't want to be his dad - absent or drunk, the only two modes he had for the longest time.

As the years go on, Dean's slowly coming to terms with the fact that he'll probably never have a kid. He can't see himself settling down with any girls, and with Cas, well, gay sex ain't exactly good for babymaking.  Dean's damn determined to be there for Sam and Jess, whenever the time comes, and he's just as desperate to be there for Sam and be in his life.

He's whipped the eggs into a strange frothy thing that doesn't really look like anything edible anymore, but what the hell.

Sam watches thoughtfully as Dean fiddles with the heat controls. "You can come anytime you want," he says.

"I just-" he pours the eggs into the heated pan. "I just don't want to miss out on what you guys are doing."

Sam wordlessly provides a bell pepper, which Dean proceeds to chop into pieces and dump on the omelette. Sam's seen Dean make a hell of a lot of omelettes, and apparently he's picked up on some patterns. "You're not missing out," Sam says after a while. Dean's on the second omelette and he thinks he hears Jess waking up in another room. "We're not doing much. It's just jobs and dinners and shitty made for TV movies, mostly."

"But what about beers on the back porch?" Dean asks, only half joking. "What about Fourth of July's and making you eggs?"

"What do you want me to do, Dean? You're traveling all the time, anyway."

"I know it's my fucking fault, okay?" He snaps back, harsher than he'd intended. He reworks his voice. "I just wish it was easier. Like it used to be."

That's what it's been coming down to, this whole time. _Like it used to be_. Only, he doesn't want it like the old days. He wants new memories and Cas on one side and Sam and Jess on the other and he thinks now maybe Sam's understanding it - at least,  part of it.

"Would we - can we come down to Kansas this summer? Would that be good?"

Dean nods slowly, his back still turned to Sam in favor of the eggs. He'd been planning on asking them for a while, but kept conveniently forgetting.

"And maybe you can come here for for a week or two?"

Dean turns around, omelette plated like a fucking masterpiece. "As much as you guys are comfortable with," he says.

Sam snorts. "It's not that we're not comfortable, it's just your stupid schedule. Everything'll be easier when you retire."

One corner of Dean’s mouth starts to inch up his face as he starts on the third omelette. “Yeah, we got a few years left before that’ll happen.”

Sam opens his mouth then closes it just as fast.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “It’s none of my business.”

Dean narrows his eyes, pointing the spatula at Sam. “Damn straight.”

“You don’t even know-”

“This is about the phone call, right? It’s still none of your business.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Fine. Just let me know when you two get married.”

“We’re not getting - it’s not like that.” Dean can feel his face going red and turns around again, choosing instead to supervise the omelette.

Jess walks in then, and even though Dean would very much like to pretend that conversation never happened, she shoots him a grin and just like that, he knows that she knows. She doesn’t say anything, but _she knows._

Sam and Jess make all sorts of weird fucking sounds as they eat their omelettes, which gives Dean a strange sense of pride. His cooking is usually pretty goddamn good, if he does say so himself.

“So,” Jess sets her fork down, “What do you want to do today?”

Dean shrugs. “I’m not sure how public I should get looking like I just lost a bar fight.”

“It’s not that bad,” Sam says, but it’s spoken quicker and quieter than normal and Sam is really terrible at lying.

Jess meets Dean’s eyes with a smile that’s only a little at Sam’s expense. “In that case, how ‘bout a drive around town and then a movie?”

“Here?” Dean asks. If there’s anything he really does not want to do right now, it’s waste his limited time with the nerds by quietly sitting in a movie theater. Also leave the apartment, because, ow, yes, his face does still hurt, but he wants to see more of California.

“Whatever you wanna do, Dean. We’re yours for the day.” And with that, she rises to wash the dishes.

While she’s otherwise occupied at the sink, Dean takes his opportunity to lean over the table and hiss “marry her” at Sam.

“I’m trying,” Sam mutters. “I can’t figure out how to propose.”

“You’re - you were gonna propose and you didn’t even _tell_ me?”

Sam winces. Dean may be keeping his voice down, but he’s indignant as fuck.

“You were busy,” Sam says.

Dean glares. “Not that busy. Never that busy. Seriously. Just call me. Whenever.”

A soft smile flashes across Sam’s face. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.” He stands up, pushing his chair in with an unusual amount of concentration. “You have to, too, though,” he says. “Let me know how things are going with this girl.”

Dean involuntarily grimaces when he hears the word “girl” and Sam, the enthusiastic puppy that he is, takes it the wrong way.

“Oh my god.” He sits back down. “Did something happen? Did you break up?”

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “No, nothing’s wrong. It’s still none of your business.”

“Dean.” Sam levels a pointed look at him and he can actually feel himself caving. “At least gimme a name.”

He sighs, but really, what harm can a name do? “Cas. It’s Cas.”

Sam’s smile is like the fucking sun and Dean realises abruptly that Sam is just as eager for news about Dean as Dean is for Sam updates.

His brother probably doesn’t need to know he’s bi, though. That can wait for, like, ever.

“Can I see a picture?”

Dean actually considers it for a split second, but then he remembers that he doesn’t actually have a picture of his not girlfriend. Seriously. There’s that one picture of Gabriel’s fluffy ass cat sitting on Cas’ lap, but that’s it. Just legs and a cat. Speaking of which… “Where’s Snowball?”

“Leonidas,” Sam corrects him. “You can’t change the subject that easy.”

“I don’t have a picture of hi - of Cas. Where’s _Leonidas,_ then?” Yes, spoken with the snide inflection on the ridiculous name. Who the fuck names their cat Leonidas? Dean’s embarrassed on their behalf.

Sam bitchfaces spectacularly. “I better meet her soon. Leo’s with a friend ‘cause … uh… you know. You guys kinda got off to a bumpy start.” Or the demon cat had woken Dean up at 3 in the morning with a bleeding bite to the foot and claw marks up and down his stomach, and then proceeded to piss all over his clothes and shoes (and later, directly on him). You know. Bumpy start.

Jess goes to take a shower, leaving Dean and Sam at the table, still talking. Once the conversation has meandered through Sam’s job and Jess’s job and that they both are loving the new apartment, it ends up on Dean’s job. Since nothing major is happening with the team, Dean finds himself bringing up Cas - not the Cas Sam knows; just Castiel. Conveniently nicknamed Cas. Dean is nothing if not subtle.

“You know the Comets?” He starts off, encouraged with a nod from Sam. “I been hanging out with the goalie. He’s really weird.”

“He’s new, right? Instead of that Metalton guy.”

Dean laughs. Sam watches most of the games, but he’s always been shit at remembering the other teams’ names, instead choosing to make up words that almost sound close. It’s endearing. “Yeah. He’s a hell of a lot better than Metatron was, and a lot less douchey, too. You’d probably like him. He’s nerdy.”

Sam frowns slowly. “What’d you say his name was?”

“Uhhh, Novak. That’s his - Novak. Yeah. Benny calls him Novass but I mean, he’s fun. But, uh. Have you seen 21 Jump Street yet?”

Sam snaps his fingers, ignoring Dean’s too-late attempt at changing the conversation. “Castiel, right? I remember watching some interview thing on ESPN a while ago. That Gabe guy is hilarious.”

Dean braces for the inevitable. Because if Sam saw the interview, the one where Cas basically professed his love for Dean and then closed with a shoutout to Winchester, he will undoubtedly put two and two together. That’s why he went to Stanford, after all. Because he can put 2 and 2 together.

He watches Sam’s eyebrows come together slowly, and by the time the “oh” comes out, it’s not even necessary.

“I think Jess is out of the shower,” Dean says, leaping upright. “I reek, man.”

It’s not necessarily that he’s proud of himself for hiding in the bathroom, but it’s definitely better than the alternative.

Dean held his first hand at the tender age of 6. Sammy was too young to understand much of anything when Dad came home and flipped absolute shit at seeing Dean and Tommy Morrison, fingers entwined and all, on their playdate. Some of the words never really left his ears, not even after all this time, not even after he hasn’t seen his dad in going on 5 years.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing,” and “my son ain’t gonna be a faggot,” and “don’t ever let me see you doin’ that again, boy,” and “where’s Sammy?”

Because Sam had been sitting on the floor by them, stuffing soft-edged toys into his mouth and giggling. Because Sam hadn’t known, and Sam’s never known, and even though Dean knows now that John wasn’t a good dad and that his words aren’t law anymore and that Dean can make his own decisions and love who he wants and do what he wants; he’s still afraid of the judgement that will come. That’s why he got used to pretending the incident never happened, got used to fixing his sexuality on hot girls and not hot guys. After a while, it grew into something that felt real, but now that he’s starting to let himself feel again, he realises that it’s sort of been a shitty lifestyle, denying yourself half of your sexuality.

He’s not proud of avoiding Sam like he avoided that part of himself all those years, but it’s better than the alternative.

He’s still clutching at the edges of the sink and staring into the light above the mirror when a soft thud startles him.

“I’m kinda offended you never said anything,” Sam says through the door. “And I’m kinda offended you think I’d make a big deal.” Dean forces himself to breathe. “It’s not a big deal, really.” His voice lowers and deepens with the kind of gravity and understanding that makes Dean want to cry with pride. “If you like Cas, then you like Cas. It doesn’t mean anything except that you like him.”

“I know I’m not supposed to be listening but the walls are really thin and I just thought I should congratulate you on a really hot boyfriend,” Jess chimes in.

Sam makes an offended noise and Dean has to laugh a little at that.

“He is pretty attractive,” Dean says, only because they can’t see him and he can almost pretend that they’re not even there.

“I still want to meet him, pronto.” Sam says, and Jess adds a “ditto” that has Dean smiling.

“That’s what Kansas is for,” he says. “Now stop bothering me. I gotta take a shower.” Before he turns on the water, he looks back at the door. “Thanks,” he says quietly. Sam’s heavy footsteps carry him away from the door then, and Dean really does take a shower and it’s cleansing in more than one way.

Nobody mentions the conversation-through-the-door when he comes out of the shower, except for when Dean texts Cas a smiley face and the text that comes back, a ;), has him grinning. Sam doesn’t find it out of line to giggle like a turd and look suggestively at Dean’s phone until Jess slaps him upside the head; but Dean doesn’t really have a problem with it either way, because it’s what Sam’d be doing if Cas was a girl (though he does high-five Jess afterwards anyway).

The day goes by way too fast, as, Dean’s finding, most good things do. He wishes he could stay for another few days - hell, he’d take another few hours, but Bobby only gave him the day off of practice and he’s expected at the rink for tomorrow’s conditioning session at 9:30.

“Call me so we can figure out when you’re comin’ to visit,” Dean says as Sam and Jess see him off before security. It’s bittersweet knowing that it’s going to be a long couple of months between now and then, but months are better than years and Dean’s not gonna cry, he’s not.

Sam hugs him extra long. “Thanks for coming to see us, Dean. Seriously.”

“It was a great day,” Jess says, stepping forward into his arms.

“And on the plus side, his face isn’t too fucked up to fly!”  

Dean flips Sam off as he’s walking away. “You’re not supposed to make fun of cripples, Sammy.”

His last glance back leaves him with the image of Jess tucked into Sam’s side, both laughing and waving; and where before, he might have felt the loss of a brother to the west coast and a beautiful girl, now he only feels the happiness that comes from living vicariously, from loving fully, and appreciating widely. Now he feels the growth of a family instead of the loss of one. Now he feels the closeness between them instead of the distance.

Now he feels the door opening.

Now he feels ready.

Dean Winchester is ready to let himself fall in love with a guy and he’s ready to be okay with himself when he’s old and dying and thinking about all of his regrets in life. He’s ready to understand that Cas will never be one of them.

Dean is ready as _fuck_.

He just has to make it through another goddamn plane ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Step 1: admit that you have a problem.  
> i have a problem and it's called procrastinating and basically sorry for not updating for like a whole month. i finished this chapter instead of finishing my summer work for school :D  
> school starts for me on tuesday, so i'm not sure if you should expect more or less sporadic updates because there's actually a really good chance that my avoidance techniques will have me focusing more on fanfic and less on school work. i'll try to update my profile thing with semi-accurate times for the next chapter.  
> anyway, i think there's probably going to be one more chapter of substance (& by substance i pretty much mean porn) and then an epilogue. can't believe i've written this many words of a weird little alternate universe of hockey. analyze that, freud.  
> okay. as always, y'all are my favorite people and i greatly appreciate your beautiful comments & constructive criticism.  
> {i plan to go back through and edit the whole thing once i don't hate every word that i've written, which will probably be a month or two after i wrap it}  
> stay classy, san diego!  
> ps i hope i did okay with the demisexual thing if anybody doesn't feel it describes the sexuality well enough please let me know and i can do something to change it okay i love all you guys and i want to represent everybody well (:


	12. boundlessly

The smell of the house as Dean opens the door is something he's been looking forward to since he left. Even though it's been over 8 months, he can still feel it in his bones as soon as he crosses the threshold. He's home.

He drops his bags by the door. "So what do you think?" He turns to Cas, who's still standing in the doorway and taking it in.

The thing about the house is that it's pretty much purely Dean, with a little bit of Sam thrown in from the two years he spent living here before college. Dean hand carved the table after his first year in the pro hockey circuit, half to manage his stress and half to make sure the part of him that knows how to shoot guns and work wood and fix cars was still there, even after the better part of a year in a city like Chicago.

The hardwood floors at the entrance way eventually turn into a short but soft carpet that Dean loves feeling on his toes in the middle of the night when he goes for a snack from his occasionally stocked fridge. Some of the walls have wood paneling and the other parts a soft green he painted two years ago. It’s got a rustic, cabin feel that Dean will always prefer over the angles that you get in a modern place.

Cas takes it all in and then, with a gentle smile more from his eyes than his mouth, he puts his suitcase with Dean’s.

“You have a beautiful home,” he says, walking in farther.

“Mi casa es su casa,” Dean says with a grin. He hooks his fingers in Cas’ belt loops and pulls him in until their lips are nearly touching. “The bed’s up for grabs, though,” he says, and before Cas understands what he means, Dean untangles himself and sprints away, up the stairs and into his bedroom. Cas follows a few seconds later, both of them laughing like little kids.

Dean’s already sprawled on the bed by the time Cas makes it through the door. “I win,” he says, smirking lazily.

Cas tries to look serious, but the smile is still edging at his lips. “I suppose I’ll sleep on the couch instead.”

“I’m a gracious winner,” Dean says. “I can share.” He pulls Cas onto the bed, rolling until Cas is draped over him and kissing the breath out of his lungs.

There’s nowhere he’d rather be than this house; under Castiel; so stupidly in love; and...well, really friggin’ tired.

"Cas-" he starts, but that's all he has to say before Cas presses a soft kiss to the corner of his lips and climbs off.

"We have a whole summer," Cas whispers into Dean's neck. "It can wait a few hours."

Dean strokes a hand through his hair absentmindedly until Cas passes out, curled around Dean like a cat.

Dean should definitely take a nap, but his mind's buzzing and there's something about sleeping beside Cas that has him pleasantly on edge, so instead, he lays there and ruminates on the past few months.

The Shotguns had a great year - one of the best in team history. The road to the playoffs started a few weeks after the team wrecked the Devils on the night of Dean's hospital visit. They ended up in a different starting bracket than the Comets, and though they both won their first games, the Comets were out in the second round with a 1-0 loss to the Leviathans when Cas' teammates failed to score. Zeddmore came through again when the subsequent Shotguns/Leviathans game ended in a shootout and it was looking like they had a real chance at taking home the Stanley Cup, but semifinals brought them up against the Alphas, who were having an uncharacteristically successful year. Dean swears that if it had been any other team, they would’ve gone on to win the whole thing. But in the first 10 minutes, one of the Alphas broke Colt’s leg and regardless of the quality of their second string, the scoring chances just weren’t there. So with the Cup in sight, the ‘guns offseason came to an end.

Dean would be lying if he said he was okay with it. It was one of the worst nights he’s ever had.

“I’m such a fucking piece of shit,” he said. “I should’ve finished Benny’s rebound.”

“And I should’ve saved those goals,” Chuck responded, more resigned than anything. “The season’s over, man, it’s fine.” As soon as they got into the apartment, Chuck headed off to his room to call Becky and Dean figured he might as well call someone, too.

“Hey, man.”

“Dean! Hey! How are you?”

Dean passed a hand over his face. Sammy’s voice always soothed him. “We lost.”

Sam paused. “I saw. I’m sorry, man, you guys had a good season.”

“Yeah, up til today.”

“Don’t get started on that, Dean. It’s not your fault.”

Dean just groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

“Dean.”

“We should’ve won,” he said stubbornly. “We were so close.”

“It sucks,” Sam said, “but there’s always next year.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

“ _Dean_.”

“ _Sam_.”

“Don’t be a jerk.”

“Don’t be a bitch, then.” Dean cracked a small smile.

"I'm proud of you," Sam said. "You're an amazing player and I know you're going to get a cup before you retire. This just wasn't your year."

"How do you feel about next year?" Dean asked. "Is that gonna be the year?"

"I see a victory in your future," Sam said, adopting the tone of a mystic. "I see confetti, and your name on a banner. There’s a strange man, with...sex hair?"

"Shut up, asshole," Dean said, regretting the day he let that phrase slip.

Sam probably almost died from laughing too hard, but he managed to sober up long enough to say goodbye to Dean and hang up.

The conversation left Dean with a smile on his face, but he wasn't quite done with the phone yet. Having a support system was pretty fucking cool, he realised, and he intended to make full use of it.

The way playoff schedules and Bobby's late night outing restrictions worked out, Dean hadn't seen Cas in person since December (though they Skyped a few times and Cas had since gotten a new phone, so pictures were easier to send). It kind of sucked, but they talked almost every night and still texted like teenagers.

"Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Dean. I visited the apiary today."

Dean settled back on his bed, a wide grin stretching his face. Cas was good at distracting him.

"How was it? You get stung yet?"

The exasperation in Cas' voice made Dean laugh. "I've told you before, we take precautions. Honey farmers are rarely stung."

"Alright, alright. Anything interesting happen?"

"Joshua and I removed a honeycomb. They're very beautiful, Dean. I can see mathematics and symmetry inside them."

It was moments like these that flashed inside him, making him burn with the kind of love that didn't need anything to keep it going. "You're a nerd," he said, instead of something stupid like _I love you_. As a term of endearment, Cas didn't mind it, and it was sure as hell better than nerdbabe. Dean just hoped Cas understood the emotion behind it, because coded language is just about as close as he got to sharing feelings.

"Thank you."

"Anytime, buddy."

Cas kept talking then, about the bees and Joshua and how excited he was to finally visit Kansas, and Dean felt better because an early end to the postseason meant more time with Cas over the summer; and by the time they said goodnight, Dean wasn't looking back but forward, and he almost slept okay that night.

Just because he didn’t see Cas for those long months didn’t mean he made it through unscathed - he ended up adding a Novak meet and greet to his list of traumatizing experiences.

A few days after they lost in semis, Dean was scheduled for an interview with none other than Gabriel. Apparently producers had decided that interviews needed to get more interesting, pronto, and so Gabe was made responsible for emotionally scarring athletes for the next eternity or so.  

Dean had only just started to make use of the pre-show refreshment table ( _donuts_ , man) when a hand on his shoulder whisked him backwards into a tiny office,

“Whaf uh _flurgh_ ,” he sprayed crumbs everywhere as he turned.

“So, I hear you’re fucking my brother?” Gabe said, casually leaning back against the desk.

Dean choked on the donut he was trying to swallow. “We’re not-”

Gabe waved a hand. “I don’t care about the deets. What I want to know,” he said, straightening up to make full use of his short frame, “is what you think you’re going to do with him.”

“What I’m going to _do_ with him?”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Look, buddy, the whole planet knows about your flings. But Cassie’s head over heels for you, God knows why, so if you can’t handle the monogamy, you better quit while you’re ahead.”

“I haven’t had sex since December,” Dean blurted out in a moment of honesty that he immediately regretted.

Gabe laughed until he realised Dean wasn’t kidding. “Holy shit. That’s - shit, that’s like, 4 months - what the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

“I don’t cheat. I wouldn’t do that to Cas.”

Gabe _simpered_ at him, cooing like a five year old girl. “That’s downright adorable. You donned the chastity belt for Castiel.”

Dean was finding that Gabe had the talent of effortlessly pissing him off. “I wouldn’t call it a chastity belt,” Dean said. “December was the last time I saw him.”

“Oh, _gross_!”

Dean didn’t regret that one at all.

Gabriel seemed mildly satisfied with Dean after that, and the interview wasn’t as hellish as he’d expected.

The worst question he got was the one he’d been expecting; he could see it from a mile off.

“So, Dean, tell us, is there a special person in your life? Anyone you can see yourself settling down with, getting some hanky panky and baking bread?”

Dean’s still convinced that Gabe and Cas aren’t really related.

“Uh.”

Just because he’d been expecting it didn’t mean that he was prepared. Gabe just stared at him expectantly, one eyebrow slowly making its way up his forehead.

“Yes or no question, Dean.”

Dean could feel his face going red underneath all the makeup he’d protested. He ran a hand down his thigh, trying to ground himself. Yes or no question. Easy, right?

“There’s - uh, yeah. I mean, yes.”

Gabe smiled then, and the follow up question that Dean was bracing for never came; instead, some fan tweet requesting his morning routine and Dean could honestly say he’d never been so happy to discuss his bathroom schedule.

Gabe let him skate through the rest of the interview, lobbing him easy questions and offering a significantly less caustic commentary than Dean had heard before. After the cameras stopped rolling, Gabe gave Dean a bag of gummy worms and also some mangled form of blessing - whatever “if he has to be fucking anyone, I’m okay with it being you” can be taken to mean.

Castiel called him after the interview aired and through the laughter, Dean made out, “Gabriel loves you.”

“Stop laughing at my interview, you douche.”

“It was very funny, Dean. You seemed uncomfortable.”

“Hey, man, I didn’t laugh at yours.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Touché.”

When Dean watched it later that night, he had to admit that it was, in fact, both amusing and painful. He was clearly not meant for the camera, made ironic by the career choice that has him performing in front of millions weekly. When Gabe’s Cas question came around, Dean had to watch through his fingers because it was _so. fucking. obvious_ that he was crazy about the nerd, and the whole world knew it, too.

Which explained the texts blowing up his phone, actually. Benny just sent **hahahahahahahahahahaha** , but Dean didn’t need any context to understand that.

Charlie’s was a little bit higher pitched; **WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU DATING YOU POOP?!?!?!!?!?** and Kevin; **you’re dating someone??**. Sam texted a winky face which made Dean minorly uncomfortable, but it was better than Bobby, who Dean didn't even know texted. **Congratulations on getting your head out of your ass, idjit.**

Most of them got a simple **fuck off** in response, except for Charlie, for whom Dean took the time to say that she'd see sooner or later (none of them reacted well to that response, which Dean could have seen coming but he really just didn't give a shit).

Cas flew out to Chicago three days after Dean's interview aired and they spent the better part of a day driving down to Kansas, during which Dean serenaded Cas with classic rock songs until Cas gave in and started singing along. It had been a good day - a long day - and that's why Dean falls asleep to the replay of his memories and to the soft breath stirring the hairs on his neck.

.................

Dean wakes up before Cas, but he lays there for a while to watch the fading light sweep across Cas’ cheekbones and eyelids. He looks, Dean thinks, like a sculpture of a man rather than the man himself. That’s not to say he’s an Adonis - because he isn’t - but there’s something about him in sleep that seems nearly angelic.

He forces himself out of bed before he can start comparing Cas to a summer’s day. He’s hungry anyway, so he takes the keys and leaves a note saying he’s running to the grocery store, be back soon. He picks up ground beef and rolls for burgers, a basket of assorted fruits and vegetables, and some ingredients for other recipes he’s been thinking about trying out. He loves having a full kitchen and someone who’ll eat his stranger concoctions - the most adventurous Chuck ever got was a fish taco that one time (which possibly gave them both food poisoning and is currently residing in Dean’s _DO NOT REPEAT THIS RECIPE EVER AGAIN IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE_ folder). He’s not planning on bringing that one up around Cas.

Cas still isn’t awake by the time Dean comes home, unloads the food, and starts cooking. He's just bringing the burgers in off the grill when Cas rounds the stairs, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

"How was your nap, Van Winkle?"

Cas yawns. "It was transcendent." He stands in the middle of the kitchen, surveying the spread Dean's prepared.

"You've been busy," he says.

Dean shoots a grin over his shoulder, but continues chopping peppers. "It's the first annual welcome home feast. I gotta show off a little for you, make you want to stay the whole summer."

Dean hears Cas' footsteps come closer, followed by the warmth of arms around his waist and a chin on his shoulder. "All you had to do was ask," Cas says, his voice low in Dean's ear. "It won't be so easy to get me to leave, though." Dean leans back into him, Cas' body feeling like a second spine, a comforting blanket. "I'm very attached to you." Cas' lips brush Dean's earlobe with every syllable they form.

A shiver runs through Dean's body and he has to disengage from Cas, pointing the knife accusingly as he backs away. "If you want to eat tonight, you're gonna have to cool the jets a little." Dean doesn't have enough self-control to force himself to focus when Cas is all over him like this and either some terrible knife-related accident is about to happen or the food is going to go cold because Cas’ll be fucking him into the carpet.

Cas frowns at him but goes to sit at the table regardless, and Dean has the food over in record fucking time because hell if he’s going to make them wait much longer to sate their appetites.

Dean’s not actually sure that the plate’s on the table before Cas has half of the burger in his mouth. His plate is cleared in what seems like 30 seconds, and then he just sits and watches Dean eat; which is kind of weird but it’s also Cas, so. Dean is also guilty of doing a little speed eating himself, which is a shame because everything tastes great and he wants to revel a little in his cooking prowess but, again, Cas.

He's sort of nervous about the whole thing. It's new territory for him, since he's never experienced firsthand anal. That's not to say he hasn't watched a lot of gay porn in the past few months, or that he hasn't fingered himself before (because he totally has). Being good at masturbating doesn't directly transfer into sexual prowess, though, and that's why Dean's nervous. It's like his first time all over again.

As soon as Dean sets his trembling fork down, Cas is out of his chair and tugging Dean upstairs.

“You’re a little eager, aren’t you?” Dean manages. Cas’ answer is to push Dean up against the nearest wall and fit his lips against Dean’s, swallowing the surprised noise that escapes Dean’s throat.

Cas feels like home just as much as home feels like home; the way his mouth moves against Dean’s lights sparklers in Dean’s stomach and waves them through the air on a late summer night. It feels even better when they finally make it into bed and Dean’s able to mouth along Cas’ neck, sucking a trail of red marks down to the collar of Cas’ shirt.

“So fucking hot, goddamn,” Dean breathes into Cas’ skin as he squirms under him.

“Less clothing.” Cas pushes at Dean, pulling Dean’s t-shirt off before going to work on his belt.

Dean is definitely on board with that and soon there’s half a wardrobe littering the floor.

It's strange thinking that they've only been in bed like this once before. It's strange thinking that Cas shouldn't know the chinks in Dean's armor, but there he is all the same, tracing his tongue over the pulse point in Dean's neck, running a hand up and down his thigh. It's strange thinking that maybe Dean's never touched this inch of skin before, that maybe his hands have never skimmed this shoulder or that knee, that he wants to fucking carbon date Cas' body and trace him out like he's a blind man finding God.

Dean stops thinking.

Cas lays him out on the bed and Dean lets him, welcoming the balanced weight above him and the wandering hands that come with. His body turns to jello and nerve endings wherever Cas' fingers touch him, and he gets the feeling that Cas is tracing the freckles again, but he's not about to protest because whatever Cas is doing, it's working. Hell, even if Cas was sitting across the room from him all wrapped up in that trenchcoat, Dean would have a pretty decent stiffy. Right now, though, he can feel it tenting his boxers and Cas is definitely not making it any easier with all his grinding and stroking.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean arches up into Cas as a hand slips into his boxers.

Cas watches him, eyes glittering and dark. "Talk," he says, and now the boxers are on the floor, too.

"Just fuck me already." Dean's trying to take control here, but it comes out broken and desperate and he thinks it actually does a little something for Cas. "Fuck me so hard I can't walk tomorr-ohh." Cas' lips take an unexpected detour past his cock, his tongue darting out to taste Dean's precome.

"You want me to fuck you?" Cas asks, his cheek right next to Dean's dick and Dean's positive Cas knows how fucking gorgeous he looks, how perfect this angle is, because Cas likes to torture him.

All Dean can think to say is "damn straight," which is probably not the most appropriate phrasing for the current situation, but Cas opens the nightstand drawer anyway, coming up with the lube and condoms that Dean always optimistically leaves there.

Cas pauses there, between Dean’s legs and Dean has to bring himself out of the flustered trance that he’s fallen under because there’s that one question he’s never asked.

“Do you - do you want me to...?” He gestures at the bottle of lube. He knows he’d probably have a hard time shoving a finger in someone else’s ass (he had a hard enough time doing it to himself the first few times, as it was).

Cas’ response is reassuring though, a vehement head shake and a kiss pressed to the inside of Dean’s knee. “I want to,” he says as he opens the lube and starts to squeeze it out. “I just don’t want to do it wrong.”

Dean wraps his legs around Cas’ waist, bringing their mouths back together so he can kiss that thoughtful frown out of existence. “You won’t.” It’s weird having conversations like this in his sex voice, all growly and confident, but he’s stuck in the register. “You feel so amazing,” Dean rumbles. “So good, everything you do.”

It seems to persuade Cas well enough, because suddenly there’s a slick finger pressing into Dean. Once the initial burning dies down and he starts moving it, the bliss begins to return.

“Is it okay?” Cas asks after a minute, his concerned face hovering in Dean’s vision.

Dean nods quickly. “Go for two,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even.

Cas complies immediately. Soon, Dean’s arching off the bed every time Cas’ long fingers hit his prostate, a low moan escaping him when Cas figures out how to scissor.

“ _More,_ ” Dean hisses. “Gimme a hat trick.” He’s not sure Cas can actually understand him (because he can’t understand himself) but that’s definitely finger number three and fuck, Dean needs Cas’ dick and he needs it now.

“Yeah, fuck,” Dean pants, “I’m good, f-” any sound in his throat devolves into a groan as Cas’ fingers brush Dean’s prostate again on the way out.

Cas strips off his underwear and rolls the condom on quickly before lubing himself up.

The only reason Dean’s not freaking out is because he’s seen Cas’ dick before, but it looks a hell of a lot bigger when he’s thinking about it in his ass. He forces himself to breathe, wraps a hand around himself and strokes a few times to remind himself how much he fucking wants this. Everything he’s read online says it’s so worth it, that it feels so _good_ , and if Dean knows himself at all, it’s that he doesn’t want to miss out on something good.

Cas looks about as nervous as Dean feels.

“Are you sure you-” Dean starts, but then the tip of Cas’ dick nudges against him and Dean shuts the fuck up, real fast. Cas settles in slowly, fully, until he bottoms out, shaking with the same overwhelming feeling that’s hitting Dean.

It’s like he's splitting apart and coming together, like every single nerve on his body is singing Cas' name, like he _needs Cas to be moving_ , yesterday.

"Go, go, goddammit go," Dean groans, smacking at Cas' back until Cas starts to thrust.

Dean muffles the sounds he's making with the back of his hand, but Cas pulls it away and places it on the pillow above his head. "I wa - want to hear you," Cas pants, his hips still circling.

Dean lets out an extra loud, pornstar moan the next time Cas' hips meet his. Cas' rhythm stutters.

"You wanna hear wha - what you do to me?"

Cas groans in response, snapping forward and sliding back, full speed ahead like a freight train.

"Make me feel so good," Dean grunts. He has to touch himself or he's definitely going to die; the degree of hardness he's experiencing is almost painful and he can already feel Cas growing more erratic in his movement. “ _Amazing_ , fuck." He isn't fully aware of what he's saying, just that if Cas wants him to run his mouth, then he'll run his mouth like no other. "I fucking cherish you."

Dean's hand makes it down to his cock and slides up and down, faster and faster, until he's matching Cas' pace and this moment, even before the orgasm hits, this moment he feels higher than he's ever felt, like he can hear the angels sing and see galaxies in Cas' body.

"Love you,” Dean gasps, and he means it more than he could explain. He doesn't think Cas hears above the shared breaths and slick sound of pounding skin, but all of a sudden Cas is shouting Dean's name and falling forward over him; and the sight of Cas mid-orgasm combined with the friction of his own hand is enough to send Dean over the edge with a strangled moan.

They lay there for a while, until their breathing slows and Dean’s ass starts feeling uncomfortable. He pushes at Cas until he gets the idea and pulls out, tossing the condom in the wastebasket that Dean directs him to.  

“That was fuckin’ awesome,” Dean says. He lets his body ramble across Cas’, hanging an arm over Cas’ chest and tucking a foot behind his knee until there’s no more space left between them. Cas turns his head to look at Dean, a soft yet radiant smile painting his face.

“It was deeply enjoyable.”

In Cas-speak, it means that it was fuckin’ awesome.

And even though it was Cas’ first time and Dean’s sort of first time, and even though there’s definite room for improvement, and even though Dean wishes it lasted longer; it was fuckin’ awesome.

“I love you,” Cas mumbles into Dean’s shoulder. “I love you, boundlessly.”

It’s not something that’s ever been said to Dean before, not the kind of thing you hear on a one-night stand. It feels like it’s scorching him from the inside out, an overwhelmingly warm and fuzzy sensation that he now knows is what it’s like to recognize love.

He kisses Cas in response, long and slow and what Cas would probably call profound; and he knows Cas understands that the kiss means just as much as the words did when Dean said them before.

“Did you quote 21 Jump Street while we were having sex?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not one of my better chapters but, hey, it's only been like two weeks. i don't know if you guys could tell but 21 jump street is one of my favorite movies of all time & 'i fucking cherish you' is my favorite line, right before 'you have the right to suck my dick, motherfucker'. #eternallyreferencing . chapter 13 is going to be an epilogue like thing, and i'm actually almost halfway done writing that already so it should be up pretty soon. thank you guys for being so fab & putting up with my sporadic updates! as always, stay classy, san diego.


	13. Epilogue

"So you're just gonna swing it through here - not - _ow!_ Ow. Okay, let's, uh, let's take a breather."

Mary drops the stick petulantly, leaving Dean rubbing his shoulder. "Uncle _Deaaan_." On the plus side, he'll never have to wonder if this kid is actually related to Sammy. She's already got the puppy dog face down pat.

"What, little lady?" As well as Dean wrapped around her finger. She's going to be a handful when she's older.

"I wanted to see the bees today, you _promised_."

"I _promised_?"

"You _did_ , Uncle Dean, and I wanna see them before Mommy and Daddy come back."

"Well, in that case, we better go get Uncle Cas and see the bees."

He follows her off the ice, but the only help she really needs is to get the skates off. She's already a phenomenal skater, better than Dean was at twice her age, even though she's not too interested in hockey. Yet. Dean’s confident it'll change.

"We're going to see the bees!" Mary shouts out the door as Dean helps her into her car seat. "I love the bees, Uncle Dean."

"I know you do, missy. Uncle Cas is gonna be thrilled."

Uncle Cas is organizing and documenting priceless artifacts in the museum when Dean and Mary arrive.

"Hey, nerd," Dean says, giving him a peck on the lips. "Bossypants wants to see the bees. Again."

"I _love_ the bees, Uncle Cas!"

"I know you do," Cas says solemnly. "Don't tell anyone, but I think they like you too."

Mary giggles all the way back to the Impala, skipping along ahead of Dean and Cas.

"I genuinely do not know how they do it," Cas says, his hand finding its way into Dean's. "She's a very energetic six year old."

"Dude, all six year old are energetic. You just gotta keep up with them until they wear themselves out."

"It's the keeping up with her that's hard. She's always - wait, Dean, where is she?"

"Shit." There's only three cars in the parking lot, and she's nowhere in sight.  "Mary?" Fuck, what if she got into a car with a stranger? What if she ran off into the housing development across the street? "Mary!"

" _Boo_!" Her blonde head pops up on the other side of the car and Dean swears he just took a step onto the stairway to heaven. "I scared you, didn't I?"

Dean shakes his head wryly. "You could be a professional scarer, little lady. I don't think bees like getting scared, though, do they, Cas?"

"No, I don't think they do," Cas says, just as serious. "They get frightened very easily."

"You heard the man," Dean says, wrestling her back into the seat. "No scaring the bees."

"I promise not to," Mary says. "I only like scaring you guys. And Daddy. Daddy's fun to scare."

Dean stifles a snort at that, because he has firsthand experience of Sam's reaction to being scared. Cas is no fun, though; he just stares Dean down whenever he leaps out from behind a corner or tries to drag him under the bed in the middle of the night. He makes up for it in other ways, mostly through his ridiculous ticklishness (Dean’s proudest of that one time he made Cas cry) and his eternal willingness to attempt to bake pies for Dean (so maybe they don’t always come out perfectly, but Dean’s never turned down a pie before and even the elderberry one was palatable).

It’s while they’re driving home that Dean looks over to see Cas air-drumming to Kansas, his head tipped back against the headrest and eyes closed.

_Carry on my wayward son_

_There’ll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don’t you cry no more_

Dean realises he’s been staring at Cas for too long and redirects his vision to the road so they don’t die in a terrible, non-bee related accident.

The thing is that this has always been his song, his mantra. Carry on, kid, cause you ain’t nowhere near the finish line. Except now that he’s looking at Cas, he's thinking that maybe it's time to get over it. By now, he's found his way, and it sure as hell looks like the seas will be calm, at least for a while. He's perfectly satisfied here, just watching Cas out of the corner of his eye and Mary in the mirror and it's not so much the matter of carrying on anymore, but of recognising this little piece of heaven that he's found.

He turns the volume up.

Mary knows most of it, too, and soon they're all wailing with the guitars and singing at the top of their lungs.

Just because he's figured out how to lay his head to rest before he's dead doesn't mean that he can't still have fun.

When they get home, throats scratchy from screaming, Cas suits himself and Mary up so they can go out back and "play with" (smoke into unconsciousness) the bees before Sam and Jess return from their weekend alone.

The only people Sam really trusts to watch Mary are Dean and Cas, which translates into approximately two nights off a year. Dean wouldn't mind taking care of her more often - hell, the kid's growing on him - but there's still that large geographic gap between Kansas and California and Sammy and Jess still can't bear to let her out of their sight for too long.

"Thank you so much, Dean," Sam's saying as he shoves luggage into the back of the Impala. "Jess and I had a great weekend."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure it was an incredibly relaxing 24 hours."

Sam bitch faces. "Just because you retired at the age of 36 doesn't mean everyone else can drop work for a week."

"Yeah," Dean says with a laugh, "but it does mean we get to make fun of you for having a _real_ job."

Sam only bitch faces harder and Dean relents, tugging his brother into a hug. "I'm proud of you, Sammy. It's a good life you made."

"You too, Dean," Sam says, pulling back to nod towards Cas, who's talking to Jess by the front door. 

"Who'da thunk it. The Winchester boys growin' up alright." It doesn't leave Dean with the bitter aftertaste anymore, but instead the sweetness of victory. _These_ are their lives. _This_ is who they really are.

He hugs Sam one last time for good measure, then Jess and Mary, before he and Cas drive them to the airport and drop them off at their terminal. They wait in the car, waving and snickering as Mary throws a hissyfit about not being able to take the bees. By the time they see her again in three weeks, she'll probably have become fixated on something else - maybe guinea pigs, maybe caterpillars, maybe pigeons; and a lot can change in three weeks, but Dean's willing to wait to see his niece again, especially if he's waiting with Cas.

"I love you," he says as Sam's half of the family disappears. He threads his fingers through Cas' on his thigh because Cas is still here, and if the past six years have taught him anything,  it's that Cas will always be here.

Cas smiles. "Boundlessly."

They drive home to Led Zeppelin and Cas fucks Dean into the floor of the living room (which they immediately regret because it turns out they're not as young as they used to be) and they fall asleep holding each other and Dean is _happy._

In the morning, there'll be another interview about how they kept their relationship a secret, even after Cas was contracted for the Shotguns. They'll ask Dean (again) how he felt when he heard the news that current NYT Bestselling Author Chuck Shurley was retiring to be with his lady, Becky, or maybe that Kevin was leaving the team to go back to school. They’ll definitely ask Old Faithful - what it was like to win the Stanley Cup with his lover (Dean really hates that word) on the same side of the ice; because it turns people never really gave up their story, for better or for worse. It's been two years since they simultaneously announced retirement, two years since Dean grabbed Cas' face on national television and planted a big, sloppy one right on his lips. Two years since Dean gave the last of his fucks and two years since he decided to spend the rest of them with Cas.

It took a while for people to understand exactly what it meant, and a longer while to overcome the fact that Dean Winchester, former ladies' man extraordinaire, is bisexual. Most of them - the important ones - got over it. Some haven't. Dean doesn't answer the phone when they call anymore, because it's always "what would your parents think" and that's not something that Dean likes to judge himself by anymore. Cas says it's just because they don't understand themselves well enough that they write offensive things online and say rude things on the television, and Dean finds that when Cas isn't concerned, he doesn't have to be, either.

After the interview, he'll head to the garage and get to work on fixing cars for little old ladies and Cas'll go back to the museum and keep on poking archaic shit, and then they'll come back home again and eat leftovers and do some pretty kinky things and Cas will count Dean's freckles again and Dean’ll force Cas to watch the Breakfast Club and time will go on like it usually does.

It’s an awful lot like a hockey game. Turns out you really do miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take - and maybe in the beginning, the shots came in glasses and got Dean blackout drunk, but there's more to it than alcohol and sex, most of the time, and Dean likes to think Gretzky had it right.

It always starts with a shot.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter if it goes where you meant it to; sometimes all that matters is the goalie who’s standing in front of you. Sometimes all that matters is the sex hair that comes out of his helmet after a long practice and the sleepy sounds he makes in the middle of the night and the way he promises _boundlessly_ like you’re in some ridiculous romance novel and the way he’s family, the way you need him. Sometimes it really is okay to follow the puck into his hands and just let go.

But it always starts with a shot.

Always.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all; this was the third epilogue i've written and the only one i feel like did a decent job at wrapping everything up, but it got kind of sappy towards the end, so. whatever. i wanted to have it up for my birthday yesterday but i figure a day late isn't TOO bad.  
> alright. now that i'm done with that...  
> i seriously have to thank all of you that left me beautiful comments & constructive comments & kudos'd me because you've kept me going. if you've read any of my other stuff on ao3, you'd see that the longest story i've ever finished (literally ever, like i was so excited that i finished that one) ended up 15,000 words long. apparently i need to write about hockey more or something because this nearly 45,000 worder (i swear i'm going to go those extra few hundred words and make it official) is the craziest thing i've ever accomplished. it took me almost half a year to write but god, am i happy. i think the best part of it was metaphoring up actual canon occurrences and slipping in the show's dialogue in some places (if you're good, you might catch it).  
> i'm going to miss the story, but with homework and sat prep picking up right now, i wanted to get it finished so i can focus on getting into college. i definitely am planning on editing this up quite a bit in the coming months, and i'm thinking i might write some one-shots or something in this au, but it'll probably take me a little while so please don't hold your breath.  
> so i may or may not have teared up a little as i finished this, because i never expected it to get this long or this fluffy (i know they say kill your darlings but my darlings have already died, like, 400 times, so i figured i could give them safe haven in the form of hockey). but seriously, thank you all so much for continuing to read & following this one to the end of the line. i love you guys (boundlessly) & if you ever need anything from me, want me to beta something or help you with math homework or whatever, i'll be here for you.  
> ~otherwise, feel extremely welcome to continue commenting ;)~  
> as always, stay classy, san diego.  
> i fucking cherish you.  
> -nightlighttuesdays


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